


Where the Night Meets the Day

by ContreParry



Category: Dragon Age II, Lord of the Rings - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Middle Earth Setting, Disabled Character, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-07-12 23:59:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7129967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ContreParry/pseuds/ContreParry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a story of how evil falls and good prevails. It is a story of rebuilding a city decimated by war. But most of all it is a story about learning to love all the contradictions that make people who they are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story came about at the thought of Fenris as a Tolkien elf, dressed in robes and braiding his long hair. Then [dragonphage](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonphage/pseuds/Dragonphage) drew [this](http://dragonphage.tumblr.com/image/145518710035) beautiful art of Fenris and I had to write Fenris the Tolkien elf as tribute.

The Houses of Healing smelled of death. 

The battle ended sometime before sunset several days past, but that did not mean the stream of wounded ceased. The wounded men were dragged into the hall, and the healers hurried to mend their hurts. Bones were set, wounds bandaged, medicines administered. Some were so bad off there was no choice but to amputate the limbs. Others were made as comfortable as they could be as they waited for the end. There was nothing else to be done. 

Anders had been awake for the past three nights in a row now, tending to the injured, taking breaks when he could be spared. He lost count of the amputations he performed, of the hands he held, of the medicine he administered and the warriors he comforted. He was tired, yes, his body aching and eyes gritty from a lack of sleep, but mostly Anders felt sick. Sick at heart. He had done all he could, but it wasn't enough. It was never enough. He begged a few moments away from Ioreth, who sent him off with a shooing motion of her hands and plenty of chatter. 

“We have it all in hand here, my dear. All in hand. What happens next, Valar willing, will happen without mortal intervention. Go rest, you have worked these past few days without sleep! Go to your room, and come back tomorrow when the sun is high.” Ioreth efficiently bustled him out of the hall, and Anders let her hurry him away from the center of the chaos. 

Anders stumbled out into the stone halls, where the less wounded and uninjured warriors anxiously crowded around waiting for news of their comrades. They assisted the healers where they could, bringing men in on stretchers or helping others limp to their straw pallets. It was chaos, but an organized chaos that was much welcomed. Better to be tending the wounded than to be burying the dead, or to be dead themselves. 

Anders made his way through a large group of tall, blonde warriors, exchanging a few greetings with the men. His Rohirric was rusty from disuse but still serviceable. The men seemed to be more friendly with him than the other Gondorian healers, and Anders suspected that the warriors of Rohan recognized him as their kin. He left Rohan when he was a small child, sent to live with his grandmother in Belfalas when his father finally acknowledged that his son would never be a herdsman or warrior of any kind. So while Anders was tall and fair like these warriors, he knew they had little else in common. 

He never had a great interest in being a warrior, Anders mused as he stumbled down a narrow set of steps to emerge into a small, secluded garden that marked the beginning of the healer's private quarters. Anders had no love of fighting and no skill at it. Even as a young boy he preferred tending to the horses and sheep over sparring matches with the other boys in the Eastfold. Not that he would have ever won those matches. 

His left leg twinged in pain, the twisted muscles in his calf and knee protesting after the long hours he spent rushing from pallet to pallet to tend to the wounded and dying. Even in this his deformity only sought to hinder him. Anders leaned against a stone wall and took a deep breath before sliding down to sit in the shadows. He stretched his aching leg in front of him and reached his hands down to massage the tender muscle around his knee. He had pushed himself too far these past few days, Anders thought bitterly as he tried to soothe the aching in his leg. But no medicine could be spared for his minor pain. There were others who needed it more. He could suffer the embarrassment of using a walking stick for a few days to keep some weight off his crippled leg. Perhaps, if he got enough rest and took it easy tomorrow he wouldn't have to use his staff for support. 

Anders waited for a few moments before slowly hoisting himself to his feet. He kept close to the wall as he shuffled down to his tiny room. It was further away from most of the healer's residences. His was one of the few permanent residents in the hall, as he was one of the few permanent healers. Most healers were volunteers, women and elderly folk eager to assist in the war against Mordor but unable to fight. They came to the halls during the days or for their evening shifts, then returned to their homes and families once the healing was done. But Anders had no one, not after grandmother passed on. Healing was his life's work. He had a room to reflect his status as a head healer, a room away from the bustle and crowds of the Houses of Healing. It was somewhere private to recuperate after the day. 

Anders was nearly at the second courtyard where his own room was located when he heard the low sounds of a conversation emanating from the courtyard. He halted in the archway, the shadows from the stone keeping him hidden from view. He waited there and wondered if he should retreat or remain where he was. Leaving would be the polite thing to do, but he was tired. Surely no one would mine if he walked past, would they? 

“No, Elladan. Elrohir.” Someone said, his voice dark and intense and as weary as Anders felt. “I refuse.” 

“You are injured from the battle. You must rest.” The other voice, calmer, more mature, replied. Where the first voice sounded dark and deep, this one was all lightness, like the chiming of bells in a spring wind. 

A third voice, similar to the second, also spoke up. “We need you here, to keep the peace with Steward Faramir as we make our march. We would not ask if it were not deeply needed. And you cannot risk aggravating your injuries further. You will rest.” 

“I will find no rest here in this tomb of stone.” The first voice said bitterly. Anders peered around the corner to catch a glimpse of these speakers. He did not mean to eavesdrop, Anders thought with some guilt, but he needed to rest his leg. It was throbbing again, the It wasn't as if they were making any efforts to keep their conversation a secret. They were speaking loudly in Westron, by the Valar! He pulled himself up so he could linger in the stone archway and nearly gasped before stuffing his fist into his mouth to keep from making a sound and revealing himself. 

He had seen an elf before. Lord Aragorn's companion was one such elf, so slim and tall and fair, beautiful and strange all at once, but he had not realized that there were other elves in the king's party. Seeing an elf was more than Anders ever dreamed of seeing in his life, but now there were more! The three elves stood beneath the spindly limbs of an apple tree, the flower buds tightly closed. The first two appeared Gondorian at first glance, dark haired and fair skinned, grey-eyed and proud. On closer inspection they were obviously not men, their pointed ears and lovely faces betraying their heritage. The third, however- Anders peered further around the corner to get a better look at him, and forgot about trying to hide. 

The third elf was a study of contrasts. His skin was dark, yet his long hair was pale. His features were another contradiction. His cheekbones were pronounced and rigid, yet his mouth was pleasantly soft. He eyebrows were dark and thick and looked so very grim, yet his eyes gleamed like brilliant green fire in the light of the moon. And all over his skin there were markings, marks that gleamed like silver, like starlight, running from his chin down into his battered, bloodstained armor. The other two elves seemed more put-together than their companion. Their armor was free of blood, gore, and dents. It was as if their aura intimidated the dirt off of their persons. Anders also noticed that they were uninjured, while their companion clutched his arm to his side. A bandage was wrapped around his head. There was a dark stain to one side. He looked as irritable as a cat left out in the icy rain while its owners enjoyed the luxury of a warm fireplace. 

Anders thought he was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. 

“Fenris, it is no tomb.” One of the dark haired elves, the one called Elladan, said with some exasperation. “It is a fortress, and one that needs protecting.” 

“I am a warrior, not a diplomat.” Fenris retorted, and Anders wondered if Fenris was throwing a sort of elven tantrum. He appeared perfectly poised and elegant, he seemed rather irritated at the same time. 

“You undersell your talents. No one is as skilled with languages as you, especially at your age. You have a clever mind.” Elrohir said patiently. “You can guide these people, Fenris.” 

“They have their leaders.” Fenris snorted, strands of long pale hair falling into his face as he tossed his head back. “I can still fight.” 

“If you fight you will die, Fenris.” Elladan's voice turned serious. Harsh. It was fact, not speculation, as if backed by some foresight or forbidden knowledge. “You are too injured to continue the march to the Black Gate. If you go with us, you will fall.” 

“And then we will have to take your body back to our father, and he will murder us for not caring for his favorite pupil.” Elrohir teased, but his face was just as solemn as his brother's. Just as stern. 

“I am not Lord Elrond's favorite pupil.” Fenris grumbled, but the tension in his shoulders disappeared at the brother's words. “But I will do as you instruct. I will stay.” 

“Good. We will rest now, before we depart on the morrow.” Elladan reached out and placed a slim hand on Fenris's head, and slightly ruffled the long, messy locks. “You must promise to rest as well, and not spend the night staring at the stars.” 

“You nag more than your sister.” Fenris grumbled. 

“You listen to her, so she has no need to nag.” Elrohir sighed and clasped a hand against Fenris's uninjured shoulder. “Rest, Fenris. We will see you in the morning.” 

The two elves departed silently, drifting off through another archway that led towards a guest house for important visitors. And these were important visitors, Anders realized with growing horror. Those were the sons of Elrond Half-Elven, the Lord of Rivendell, one of the greatest healers of this age, or any age. And Anders just eavesdropped on an extremely private conversation between the brothers and their family friend! What was wrong with him? They seemed distracted, though, which Anders considered to be a blessing from the Valar themselves. Perhaps he would remain unnoticed, and this horrible breach of etiquette would never be discovered. He stared at the remaining elf, Fenris, and waited for him to leave. 

But the elf did not move from his spot under the apple tree. Instead, he tilted his head back, his pale hair falling away from his face like a veil as he stared up at the sky. Stared up into the stars. His gaze was so fully fixated on the sky that he seemed completely removed from the rest of the world. Fenris was so distracted, Anders realized, that he could sneak past the elf and enter his room across the courtyard without drawing any attention. He only had to stick to the shadows and remain quiet. All he had to do was remain unseen. That was a simple enough task. Anders slowly shifted in the archway and leaned further against the wall. One step in front of the other, he told himself. He lifted his foot and slowly walked out of the archway, sticking to the walls and shadows. All the while he kept an eye on Fenris, who was still staring at the stars. Anders took one more step on his bad leg, and winced as the muscles around his knee seized up. A low hiss escaped his lips as pain shot up his leg, and he froze, fearfully glancing to the elf, praying to the Valar that he had escaped Fenris's attentions. 

“You make more noise than a herd of wild horses.” Fenris remarked dryly, folding his arms across his chest. “If you are a spy you're a terrible one.” He looked terribly unimpressed. His bright green eyes pierced through the darkness, pinning Anders against the wall with an irritated glare. Anders stood up, straightening his spine and ignoring the spiking pain in his left leg. If he couldn't get away, he would just have to admit to his presence and speak with the elf. 

“I'm not a spy.” Anders said clearly. “I'm a healer. And I'm trying to go to bed, thank you very much.” 

“And your bed is outside among these stone walls?” Fenris asked with a derisive snort. Anders scowled. Fenris may be an elf, and one of the most handsome and graceful beings Anders ever beheld, but it did not mean that Fenris wasn't being horrendously rude! 

“No, it's over there.” Anders pointed to the doorway that lead to the hall his room was in. “I didn't want to interrupt your conversation.” 

“You are a spy and a liar.” Fenris said with a frown. “You could have left us to our privacy.” 

“And maybe I've been too busy working to follow social protocol.” Anders retorted. Liar _and_ spy? Those were some serious accusations, ones that struck Anders to his core. He was devoted to being a healer, and here was this stranger, an immortal being, supposedly one of the wisest creatures to walk Middle-Earth, accusing him of treachery! It hurt, and it made him angry. 

“I have worked for the past three days and nights keeping my kinsmen alive, elf. I have removed limbs, wrapped wounds, brewed potions, and held the hands of dying men until they breathe their last.” Anders hissed out, maintaining eye contact with those green eyes that saw too much. “My intention was to get some rest before I repeat that nightmare tomorrow. I never wished to come across your private conversation, and I never intended to speak with someone as abominably rude as you!” Anders drew himself up to his full height and used all his willpower to not stagger or limp. 

“So if you'll excuse me, Master Elf, I will take my leave of you. Good _night_!” Anders turned and marched away, biting his lip to keep himself from crying out as his bad leg made contact with the stone floor. But he walked away with his head held high and his dignity intact. 

Anders waited until he exited the courtyard and was fully inside the hall to drop his shoulders and resume walking with his limp, lifting the weight of his body off his bad leg. He would have to use his staff tomorrow, Anders thought bitterly. That was the price he paid for his pride. Foolish. But he thought of Fenris's scathing looks and harsh words, and Anders found he could not regret his choice. He had little beyond his skills as a healer and the clothes on his back to his name, Anders thought as he leaned against his door and took out a small iron key. What little he had he needed to defend with his life. He had to be proud, or else he had nothing. Anders opened his door and slipped inside, shutting it behind him. 

His orange tabby cat, Pounce, mewed at him from his spot in the middle of Anders's bed, and Anders finally cracked a smile for what felt like the first time in _days_ as he removed the cloth scarf wrapped around his head and untangled his braided hair. He even removed the small hoop earring that pierced through his right earlobe. He set the earring on the small table that held his washbasin before turning to his bed to address his cat. 

“I've got no one but you, Pounce.” Anders murmured, limping over to scratch the cat's chin. The cat purred contentedly and Anders closed his eyes as well. At least _someone_ loved him still. At least he had someone to hold onto through the chaos of war and heartbreak. He was tired, battered, and felt far older than his years. Anders was also filthy and drenched in his own sweat. The dirt and grease from armor and chain mail was smeared across his grey healer's tunic. The blood and other bodily fluids of his patients stained the linen brown. Anders groaned and tugged the tunic off his body, tossing it into a pile of filthy clothing he would have to try and clean. At this point it might only be fit for the rag bag, Anders thought grimly. He slipped his feet out of their slippers and pulled off his leggings before tugging off his smalls and undershirt. It was all filthy. 

Now that he was naked he felt vulnerable, as if hidden eyes were spying on him even in the sanctuary of his room. Anders unconsciously shifted, curled up slightly, tried to hide his left leg from those eyes- but no one was there except for Pounce, and the cat didn't care about Anders's appearance. Pounce was king of the Houses of Healing, the chaser of birds and chief mouser of the ward. He was also, first and foremost, Anders's dearest friend. 

Anders straightened up and hobbled over to his washbasin, taking out a clean rag and dipping it in water. He bathed quickly and silently, hissing a bit as he washed his left leg. His knee was red and swollen, as he suspected it would be. His left leg was thinner and less muscled than his right, as it always was. But the muscles were strained and exhausted. He had worked too hard today. There was nothing else to be done, though. Anders took another clean rag and soaked it in water before setting it over a brazier filled with hot coals to heat it up. The heat would give his leg and knee some much needed relief. 

Anders pulled on a clean night shift and smalls, grabbed the wet rag (which was now warm) and lay back in his bed. Pounce curled up against him, and Anders placed the rag over his knee. He would sleep, Anders thought as his mind seemed to slow from exhaustion. He would put all thoughts of darkness and agony and war behind him. He would forget the harsh words and sneering looks of that elf, Fenris, who was as beautiful as he was cruel. Anders would forget. He would forget, if only for the night. 

With these thoughts and the warm presence of Pounce at his chest, Anders fell asleep. 

-

Fenris woke with the dawn. 

He always rose with the sun, ever since he was young, but today was different. Today he woke to a sun shrouded in dark clouds and hidden behind stone walls. It felt like waking up in a tomb, it was so silent and still and cold. But still Fenris woke and dressed himself. He wanted to be defiant and struggle into his armor and swing his sword over his back, tuck his knives into his boots, but he knew he could not. He was already struggling with taking off his sleeping shirt. 

His arm was broken, the bone shattered when he raised it to defend against the blow of an orc's mace. His gauntlets prevented a flesh wound, but his arm broke from the fierce strike. Elladan set it on the battlefield, and Elrohir fixed the setting once their party entered the city. There was nothing else Fenris could do but wait now. Nothing but time could heal his arm. 

Elrond's sons tried to put it to him kindly. Gently, even. They told him he was needed, that the city required a warrior and scholar both, that his skills were of use to the broken city of Minas Tirith. But their words only emphasized what Fenris knew to be true. He remained in Minas Tirith, this city of stone and silence, not because he was useful, but because he would be a burden anywhere else. He could not serve as a warrior with his friends. He could not protect them. He could not even advise them, for they were already far older and wiser than he. Fenris was useless. Elladan and Elrohir were only trying to spare his pride by giving him a task. A chore. It was humiliating. But Fenris would follow their guidance. If he went with them, he knew his friends would try to protect him instead of themselves. Staying behind was best for all of them, but it made him feel weak. 

Fenris hated feeling weak. 

Fenris tugged a plain shirt over his head, carefully pulling his injured arm through the sleeve. The soft fabric was a shade of green that matched the forests of Woodland Realm in the height of summer. Fenris tugged on clean leggings and thin-soled shoes before draping a grey green cloak over his shoulders. He pinned the cloak with a simple silver clasp he took from his sparse belongings. He was fully dressed just as the sunlight, as weak as an infant's first cries, beamed through the window of the bedroom. 

The room he was gifted with was small, but clean and practical. There was a bed in one corner, a washbasin in the other, and a small window high up in the wall. Fenris approached the basin, washed his face, dried up, and attempted to brush his hair with the comb left beside the wash basin. His hair tangled in the wooden teeth, but he eventually sorted out the silken strands until they were smooth and manageable again. He plaited the hair into a single, long braid. It was simple. Clean. Out of his way. 

It was the same hairstyle that man wore last night. 

Fenris frowned, his eyebrows furrowing in displeasure as he thought of the strange man he met outside in the courtyard. A healer, if his word and grey robes were to be trusted. A healer like many other healers, but different. Combative, like a healer never should be. Proud. Arrogant. Foolish. Rude. Fenris snorted and tied off his plait with a leather cord before letting it drape over his shoulder. 

He only saw the man by the light of the moon and stars, and the man hid himself in the shadows. But elf eyes are sharp, and Fenris saw enough. The man was tall and thin, dressed in unshapely robes covered in grime and blood. He hid his hair under a head scarf of rough, unbleached linen, but the few strands that escaped appeared to be some shade of blonde in the moonlight. He was worn down and ragged, his exhaustion clear in those dark, dark eyes. He looked pale and sickly. Shouldn't a healer take better care of themselves? A healer who looked as sick as this man would not inspire much faith in his patients. 

Fenris wondered what sort of healer this man was, someone so filthy and exhausted that he looked like he needed to be on the sickbed himself. He was most likely unskilled, a man with the desire to help but without the knowledge to be of much use. And while determination and willpower had its uses, Fenris knew that they could only go so far. Without skill a healer was nothing. And while a healer would do what they could to end the suffering of patients at their door, it was a hopeless task if the cause of that suffering was not dealt with. 

Fenris would rather aim at the root than the very ends of the branches. 

He slipped out of his room and closed the door, feeling naked without his sword strapped to his back. But Fenris moved through the halls to meet with the remaining soldiers and leaders who would depart for the Black Gates. It seemed far too soon after the battle on the fields outside the city, but Fenris knew that the lord of Mordor waited for no one. He would strike and strike hard, and they had to be prepared. They had to strike first. 

“Remember to use your knowledge and strength to help them, Fenris.” Elladan said solemnly. 

“Remember not to get lost in all this stone.” Elrohir added. 

“There are gardens at the Houses of Healing.” Legolas gently reminded Fenris. “There are fine views of the stars from there.” 

“Rest and recover, young one.” Lord Aragorn stated with all the dignity of a king. Fenris wondered when it was that the scruffy boy turned wild ranger of the north became someone he would follow. Someone that could _lead_. It was an interesting path to tread, those murky memories he had of a child who was now a king. 

“I am older than you, Lord Aragorn.” Fenris grumbled, but Gondor's heir merely laughed and patted Fenris's uninjured arm. 

“In years, perhaps, but not in spirit.” With those words, Aragorn departed, and Fenris left. 

Fenris stood at the ramparts and watched them go. He wondered if they would return. He hoped that they would, and feared that they wouldn't. But fear would kill what little hope and spirit they had. They must prepare for the worst, even as they prepared to win this final battle, a battle that rested on the actions of the smallest of allies and the slimmest of hopes. Fenris drew his cloak tighter to his body and sighed deeply. There was nothing he could do but wait. Wait and advise, he thought with some bitterness as he looked over the chaos in the streets below. The entire city was destroyed by the battle. There were men rebuilding the gates that the armies of Mordor and the Witch-King tore down, and people rushed through the streets, carrying lumber and stone and food. The city appeared to be full of life, until he looked closer and saw the harrowed expressions on the people's faces, the anxiety and the fear, the exhaustion that such fear brought, and the strength of will that made them continue on despite that. 

It was much like the face of the healer from last night. 

Fenris shook his head and walked faster, unconsciously making his way back up to the sixth level of the city and to the Houses of Healing. While he would like nothing more than to fight and end the cause of their suffering, he knew that he could not. He would just have to provide aide to the survivors in the city. He would have to speak with Lord Faramir and discuss what must be done to protect this city and its people. They would have to survive, and as Elladan and Elrohir said, Fenris would use what strength he had to ensure Middle Earth did not fall. 

-

Fenris did not think that this was one of Elrohir or Elladan's better plans. 

“It is such a pleasure to be in the company of another elf!” Merrill exclaimed as she took a mug of tea offered to her by one of the Gondorian servants stationed in their borrowed quarters. “Not that I don't mind humans, not at all! But it's my first time being surrounded by so many, you see, and it's very confusing how they all live cramped up on top of each other. How do they manage that?” 

“Think of it as a beehive.” Fenris advised Merrill as he looked her over. She cut her dark hair short again, he noted. She probably leaned over a candle and it caught fire. It happened more than once in their long acquaintance. Merrill was beautiful, like all elves were. Her skin gleamed with an inner radiance, and her dark hair shone like a blackbird's wing. Her eyes were lovely and green, and her wisdom and goodness flowed from them. But Fenris could never muster any feelings towards her beyond a distant sort of friendly regard. Merrill was... that is, she was- 

”Ah, yes. You are very clever, Fenris! A beehive, that is just what this place is!” Merrill said with a smile before drinking her tea. “Why, this is quite lovely! Excuse me, what leaves do you use to brew this?” The human servant, a young girl with freckles and bright red hair, eagerly launched into an explanation of orange blossoms and jasmine, which Merrill paid great attention to. Fenris stared out the window at grey stones, grey sky, and grey dirt as they spoke. 

This city was not like Rivendell, where Merrill hailed from. Leaving her to the mercies of a mortal city without so much as a map seemed like throwing a rabbit into a lion's den. 

Perhaps that was another one of his tasks during his stay in the city, Fenris mused. He would have to be Merrill's keeper. That meant more time in the Houses of Healing, more time around the stench of death and decay. More time being _useless_ instead of fighting the real enemy out beyond these stone walls. 

“Ah, Fenris? Fenris?” Merrill's voice pulled Fenris out of his musings, and he returned his attention to her. “Fenris, Lord Faramir wanted us to meet with one of the guard captains of the city, and a few others so we can develop a defense plan for the city. There was also something about finding more room for the wounded and the refugees.” 

“Yes.” Fenris stood up, wincing as his bandaged and braced arm lightly smacked the wooden table. “The steward requested we meet with a council in a private hall while he speaks with the remaining nobility in the city.” 

“So he won't be joining us?” Merrill asked. She sounded slightly disappointed by the news. 

“No.” Fenris stated. “Remember, Merrill, he is recovering from poison and the Black Breath. He nearly died. It is by the grace of the Valar he survived. He is pushing himself enough.” Fenris was fairly confident that he and a few others could adequately defend a city without Gondor's steward checking in on them at every turn. Let Faramir handle the nobility. His odd collection of people would have to do the dirty work while the nobles bickered and debated about what to do and when. 

“Of course. I'll see you then, Fenris?” Merrill questioned. Fenris nodded. 

“Ask the guards to guide you down to the proper place so you don't get lost.” Fenris ordered before he departed. He needed some time alone with his thoughts before he had to speak with others. 

He found himself back at the Houses of Healing, standing underneath that same apple tree from yesterday. The blossoms were still tightly closed on the branches. Fenris watched them sway in the breeze, and wondered how plants flowered in a garden of stone. He stood there lost in his thoughts for so long he did not hear the footsteps that approached until someone cleared their throat and spoke. 

”So did you stand out here all night? Can elves function without sleep?” Fenris recognized the voice of the healer from the evening before. 

“I slept.” Fenris said stiffly as he looked the man over. 

He was tall. Taller than him, with fair hair and freckled skin. His nose was long and thin, and was broken at some point. The healer had a long and narrow face, his chin covered with reddish scruff. His eyes were not the dark color that Fenris thought they were in the moonlight, but a cross between the color of ripe wheat and honey fresh from the comb. His hair was red-gold, braided back and hidden under a rough linen scarf. He wore clean grey healer robes. The only sign of his weariness were the bruised dark circles under his eyes and the staff used to hold himself up. 

Fenris tended to avoid humans. Their lives were short and, even though he had only lived three centuries, he found it hard to communicate with such short-lived beings. It did not help that humans tended to be awestruck by him. They would stare, they would gape, they would whisper behind their hands and watch his every move. The bolder ones would use false flattery to try and move closer to him. Fenris could never form anything meaningful from such fleeting, fake encounters. He could never count humans as a race among his friends. Fenris had trouble making friends at all. The thought of losing the precious few he had terrified him. So he had few dealings with the race of Men. He had seen many recently in the past years, yet this one, this healer with the tired eyes and sharp tongue, was special. 

He did not think he would ever find a mortal man attractive. But there was something about this healer's bearing that intrigued him. He gripped his staff as though it was all that could hold him upright, yet he stared at Fenris with the steady gaze that rivaled the greatest of warriors. He was feeble, yet completely unafraid. Unbent. Unbroken. Weak in body, but not in mind or spirit. 

Fenris always admired a strong mind. 

“You changed clothes, certainly, and your head wound closed up.” The healer noted. “Were you waiting here for something?” He sounded more polite than last night. Polite and curious, a friendliness that made Fenris wary. What did this man want from him? Fenris preferred the healer's combative fire of yesterday- it was more honest than the bland _manners_ that these humans put on for him. He did not want artifice. He wanted truth. 

“No. I walked to clear my head.” Fenris answered. “I only received a cut. It is gone now.” 

“Head wounds always bleed excessively.” The healer noted. “But that doesn't explain why you walked here. There are better places, finer gardens. Perhaps the gardens in the eastern courtyard would be more to your liking-” 

“I did not walk for conversation or to sight see.” Fenris interrupted, and the healer's cautious false friendliness melted away into an irritated glare. Fenris enjoyed the shift, how the healer's eyes turned bright and hard, just like the stars, how he gritted his teeth and his knuckles turned white as he gripped his walking staff. 

“Then I'll just leave you to your standing, Master Elf.” The healer said, tossing his head back before turning to leave. “I would hate to interrupt your very important work.” He moved with surprising agility, his feet shuffling across the stone with a soft swish, accentuated by the dull sound of the butt of the wooden staff hitting stone. Fenris watched him depart through the far archway. He wondered if he would encounter the healer again. But as the sun rose higher, Fenris knew he had to leave this small courtyard and meet with Steward Faramir's chosen group of agents to keep this city and its people safe. Fenris sighed and reminded himself that it was his duty to help all free creatures of Middle Earth. While he would rather wield a sword and battle the darkness head on, Fenris knew he could only do so much. He knew he had to cooperate if they were ever going to stand a chance and fight back against the dark forces of Mordor. 

He would cooperate, even if he must suffer the companionship of false flattery and the coldness of stone walls.


	2. Chapter 2

It was the Lady Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth, who fetched him from his post at the bedside of a wounded rider of Rohan. There were far too many of those. Wounded riders, that is, not petite princesses with dark hair and large grey eyes. This rider lost the use of his legs. A blow to his spine rendered him paralyzed. Anders tried his best to communicate the loss and encourage the man, Gárulf, to keep fighting. To keep living. 

“It is not hopeless. You are needed back in the Mark.” Anders murmured in Rohirric, but Gárulf turned his grizzled grey head away from him. “They need you for more than a strong arm or back. They need your experience, your knowledge. The boys you have left behind know nothing, how will they herd horses or farm fields without you to guide them?” 

“Anders?” Lothíriel whispered, tugging on the sleeve of his robe. “Anders, a messenger brought word for you to attend a meeting on the fifth level, in the house of the Vael family-” 

“Ugh, wonderful.” Anders muttered. He knew what this was about. “Couldn't Lord Faramir send someone else?” 

“He insisted that it be you. You're our best healer, Anders, and you won't find offense at every action or fault in every person. No one else could work with others to assist the city. Cousin Faramir knows that better than anyone.” Lothíriel stated, and Anders snorted before nudging the girl's arm. 

“Flattery, princess?” He teased before he stood up. The girl handed him his walking stick before giving him a stern look. She looked as intimidating as her father or any of her three older brothers when she gave him that cool, assessing gaze. And to think Anders was the one who taught her the art of healing! One would think that she would treat him with due reverence or fear, but the girl was as bold as brass. She always had been. 

“You will go carefully now, won't you?” She asked, arms folded across her chest. “I know your leg is bothering you again, and you refuse to use that salve-” 

“There are others who need it more. Warriors unused to the pain they are suffering.” Anders shrugged. “I've lived with this bad leg all my life. I can live with pain. Look after Gárulf for me? He doesn't know Westron, but I think the company will do him some good.” 

“Of course, Anders.” Lothíriel sat down on a stool next to the injured rider and took his hand in her tiny ones. “Westu hal, Gárulf.” Anders left the room as the rider hesitantly greeted the princess. At least his patient would be in capable hands while he attended this meeting. Or, Anders thought with some sarcasm as he shrugged on his cloak and tugged the linen scarf off his head, his patient would be in good hands while his healer attended what was bound to be a colossal waste of time. 

Anders knew Lord Faramir meant well. He understood that the nobles in the city were preoccupied with organizing their own lands and people. Anders knew that meant that other people would have to take charge of the defense of the city and the health of the citizens. Minas Tirith needed people who would put the safety of the common people above the self-interest of the nobles. The people needed practical leadership without the arrogance of the nobility. Anders leaned his weight on his staff and hobbled down a set of steps. They just had to hold this meeting of minds a level down, didn't they? As if it wasn't hard enough to find time to spare for something as pointless as what amounted to tea-time with utter strangers, but now Anders had to shuffle his way down stone steps and past crowds of tired people. He kept his weight off his leg and hurried to get to the bottom of the steps. 

He quietly asked a city guard where the Vael family resided in this section of the city. The guard, an older man with a crutch jammed under his arm, pointed to a white stone building down the street. Anders approached and knocked on the door three times before leaning on his walking staff again. A moment later a maid opened the door. 

“I am Anders, from the Houses of Healing. I am to meet with the master of the house.” 

“Of course, Healer Anders.” The young woman bowed deeply at the waist and ushered him inside. Anders stepped into the cool house. “I will take your staff, healer, and your cloak.” 

“My cloak, yes, but I will keep my staff. Thank you for offering.” Anders replied with a smile as he removed his worn blue-green wool cloak and handed it to the girl to hang up. He brushed some dirt from his grey healing robes and undid his braided hair, running his fingers through the strands before tying them back into a low-hanging tail. He would not look pristine and polished, not by the standards of a prissy noble, but he would be neat and presentable. Anders let the girl lead him down the hall and into a sort of sitting room. There were low padded benches set around a table, and several people were already seated at them. 

“Healer Anders here to see you, milord.” The maid announced. A man with dark auburn hair, tanned skin, and eyes as blue as the summer sky smiled at the girl and dismissed her with a nod of his head. 

“It is good of you to come, Healer Anders. I know the houses cannot spare their healers long.” The man said. “Please, take a seat.” 

“I was told it was important, so I came.” Anders hobbled to a bench and gingerly sat down before setting his staff on the floor. He straightened up and looked at the others gathered around him. The man who greeted him was dressed in a tunic and leggings. While the cut of the clothes were simple, they were made with fine materials and fitted to his body. He was clean, but Anders noticed the twitch in the man's calloused fingers, the way his eyes darted back and forth, how he shifted restlessly in his seat. A warrior of some type, Anders guessed, possibly a bowman based on the callouses on his fingers. His left arm and shoulder were slightly misshapen, as if there were bandages underneath his tunic in those spots. He must have been injured in the battle, Anders realized, and could not march with the other soldiers. He was left behind to care for the city. 

“I am Sebastian Vael of the Vael family.” The man said quietly. “My family comes from the Morthond Vale.” 

Morthond. The area was famous for its fertile valley, hidden in the shadow of the cursed mountains where the spirits of the traitorous dead gathered. The men of the vale were famous for their skill with the longbow. Many of the men of Morthond died on the fields shooting down the large beasts the Southron troops rode, crushed underneath their massive feet. Sebastian Vael was probably one of the few survivors of the Morthond bowmen. 

“Ah, but I forgot my manners. Everyone, this is Anders, a Healer from the Houses of Healing.” Sebastian gestured to the others sitting on the benches. “Anders, these are the other members of our...” 

“Our assembly?” A tall man suggested cheerfully. He was dressed in the grey and green of a ranger of Ithilien. His icy blue eyes twinkled in a tanned face. His dark hair was cut short. He was clean shaven, which surprised Anders. Rangers normally didn't have the time to shave. “I'm Hawke. Captain Faramir-” 

“Steward.” Sebastian corrected. 

“He's my captain and he'll always be my captain.” Hawke said with a smile and a shrug before continuing. “Anyways, Captain Faramir asked me to come down, look at the city's defenses. Shore them up, as it were.” 

“Speaking of shores.” A dark skinned woman piped up. “We should talk about those shipments of dried fish from Dol Amroth. Cities can't run without a steady food source.” She was dressed in tight leggings and boots, and a white top that clung indecently low on her breasts. She looked foreign, possibly from Harad or parts further east. 

“This is Isabela, a tradeswoman who has made her business shipping items of great value.” Sebastian said politely, though it was clear he struggled to find the words to describe who Isabela was and what she was doing here. 

“What our darling noble meant to say is that I'm a smuggler.” Isabela responded before pouring herself a glass of wine. “Not what I normally drink, but it will do. The Steward, darling clever man that he is, offered leniency if I assist in the rebuilding effort.” 

“How can you help?” Anders asked. Lord Faramir was known for his cleverness, but he didn't see how an indecently clad pirate with whiskey colored eyes would make Minas Tirith _stronger_. 

“No one knows the water better than I do. I can defend against enemy ships on the river. I also know how to get what's needed and get it fast, at half the cost.” Isabela smirked. “I'm very useful to have around, healer.” 

”I'm also a merchant. I've got the connections and know which strings to pull to get things done in this city.” Another man with a low-cut shirt said in a cheerful voice. Anders realized that the man was not a man, but a dwarf. A beardless dwarf with a surprising amount of chest hair. Anders wondered if dwarf beards migrated, but tossed the thought out of his head. That was rude! 

“Varric Tethras. I've heard plenty about you from your patients, Anders.” The dwarf chuckled, a sound that was low and rich and filled the room. 

“Good things, I hope.” Anders quipped nervously. Why did Lord Faramir think that he was suited to speak with any of these people? How could he possibly rebuild the city? He was a healer, by Arda! He should be healing! 

“Oh, I've heard that you're the dragon of the healing houses.” Varric said. “But I've got a bit of experience with dragons.” Anders knew the stories of dwarves and dragons, of the Lonely Mountain and the dragon Smaug. 

“I hope we'll have better relations than most dwarves and dragons.” Anders joked, and Varric laughed. 

“I'm sure we will, Anders. To tell the truth, getting expelled from Erebor was the best thing to ever happen to my family.” Varric said once his laughter died down. “Dwarves get their heads stuck too deeply in the earth. We need to be pulled out of that earth and join the rest of the world.” 

“I am Aveline.” A stern woman with red hair said firmly. She was wearing leather armor, and looked like she had just gone off duty. “I am acting Captain of the Guard. How are the soldiers healing, Anders?” 

“Better than we anticipated.” Anders said truthfully. He had not expected that there would be anyone left to heal, when all this was done. He thought that they would all be dead. “But there are some injuries that will take more time to heal than others.” 

“I see.” Aveline stated. 

“If you would like, I could come and look at them.” A light voice offered, and Anders tried not to gape when he looked at the woman who spoke. An elf! She was petite and pretty, with pale skin and large green eyes. Her dark hair was short, shorter than his, and curled prettily around her long, pointed ears. She was lovely, and much different than _Fenris_. She seemed different from most elves, with a sort of earthly excitement that grounded her and made her seem more real. 

“Not that I doubt your abilities, of course!” The elf added hastily. “I'm sure you're an excellent healer! I just, well, I thought I'd be of greater help helping the healers. I've plenty of experience, you see, and I would be glad to help.” Her slim, tiny fingers twisted together, weaving into a tight basket in her lap. 

“I would appreciate your expertise, Lady...?” Anders didn't know what else to say. How did one address an elf? That is, how did one address an elf who was rather sweet and polite? 

“Oh! How silly, I completely forgot to introduce myself! I'm Merrill.” The elf beamed at him, and Anders couldn't help but smile back. “I think we will be good friends, Anders!” 

Anders was about to open his mouth and reply that he was looking forward to working with her when the maid entered the room again. 

“Master Fenris of Mirkwood, here to see you, milord.” The maid said with another curtsey, and Anders's heart dropped to his stomach. 

“Thank you, Sara. I will call for you if we need anything.” Sebastian replied. He smiled at the doorway and gestured to the elf standing there, the same elf from yesterday and this morning. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Master Fenris. I am Sebastian Vael.” 

“Good afternoon.” Fenris rumbled in his low voice. Anders kept his mouth shut and tried to interpret the look on Fenris's face. 

The light in the room was better, and they were finally close enough that Anders saw what those strange lines on Fenris's chin were. They were scars, carved into intricate loops and swirls on his chin and down his throat. Anders winced in sympathy. It would have had to have been painful to endure. Who would choose to do that to themselves? 

Perhaps Fenris had not chosen. Anders tore himself away from the dark path his thoughts were treading in favor of other subjects: mainly, how Fenris was looking right at him with a slightly irritated frown on his face. 

“You. What are you doing here?” Fenris asked bluntly. He clearly did not think Anders was supposed to be present, and eyed him distastefully. He spared an extra moment to look down at his staff, and Anders felt his hands tremble slightly. It was there, all in those green eyes: the confusion, the realization, the sudden pity that Anders never, _ever_ wanted. 

“I was invited.” Anders retorted. “And I showed up on time, which is more than I can say about you, Master Elf.” Perhaps it was unwise to goad an immortal being, but Anders was never known for his wisdom or foresight. Fenris bristled at the jab before briskly walking to the sitting area and taking a seat opposite Anders. Good, Anders thought angrily. Stay away! 

“I was occupied with a pressing matter.” Fenris said. It was then that Sebastian intervened. 

“Now that we are all gathered, I believe we may begin.” He said calmly. “We are all present at the invitation of Steward Faramir, are we not?” Sebastian looked around at the gathered group. “The Steward has tasked us with rebuilding Minas Tirith from the ground up. He has requested us to use our resources to defend the city and her people.” 

“Seems a bit roundabout, don't you think? Getting a group of unknowns to lead?” Isabela asked. 

“I believe the steward wanted practical knowledge over nobility. The nobles are looking to their own lands- no offense meant, Lord Vael.” Varric said in a slow drawl. 

“None taken.” Sebastian said easily. “My grandfather is sitting in the councils with Steward Faramir. I am... I suppose I am the liaison between our council and the nobility.” 

“If we can manage to rebuild this disaster, I won't care how we do it.” Hawke declared. “Where do we start?” 

Fenris cleared his throat then, a rough sound that grabbed Anders's attention. It irritated him that this arrogant being had so much control over him and his reactions. 

“I may provide some assistance. Steward Faramir requested that I look into some records for him, to lay out the best routes out of the city in case of an emergency. It was why I was late.” Fenris paused to level an icy glare at Anders. 

Merrill pounced in on the conversation at that moment. 

“Oh! Did you find it, Fenris?” Merrill asked, leaning forward in her seat. 

“Yes.” Fenris reached into his cloak and tugged out a crisp piece of parchment. “I made a copy, as the archivist insisted that the original was far too fragile to take out of the hall.” He smoothed the parchment on the low table the benches surrounded, and sat back to let the others look at it. 

“It's... a map.” Hawke said blandly. 

“A nice map. You've a fine hand, Fenris. Do any copy-editing?” Varric asked. Fenris ignored the comment, instead pointing to the features on the map. 

“It is a map of a series of caverns built into the mountain. Caverns that can be used for extra storage, room for people as we rebuild the city, even evacuations if necessary.” Fenris continued, pointing to different tunnels. Cave tunnels. “Many of them were forgotten, but should there be another attack, should the city be overrun...” 

“We'll need a planned escape route. And a safe one.” Hawke said. His blue eyes were troubled. “Shouldn't we try and get anyone living outside the city inside first? If an army comes, they'll be swept up in the chaos.” 

“Why don't we try securing those tunnels first.” Varric suggested. “See if the mountains have shifted, if tunnels have collapsed, since this map was made. Which was in...” 

“484 of the Third Age.” Fenris confirmed. “There are more recent maps in the archives, but this is the most complete one I've found.” 

“You keep to the books, Fenris. Find what you can.” Isabela stated, then took a sip of her wine. “I can get mining equipment shipped in in a few days. Don't ask me where it comes from, though.” 

“I'll gather some workers.” Varric added. “They won't ask questions, so long as they’re paid. To be honest, they'd work for free if we tell them it's to defend the city.” 

“I would not short change laborers. We will pay them for their work.” Aveline said firmly. 

“I will write to the noble families outside Minas Tirith.” Sebastian offered. “Tell them to remain vigilant, and to retreat to the city at the first sign of danger.” 

“Hopefully they'll listen to common sense.” Hawke grumbled. His blue eyes were shaded, as if he was remembering something rather unpleasant. 

“Defenses are well and good, but we have a lot of people here.” Anders piped up, finally able to voice a concern that he harbored for months now as refugees poured into the city. “There are so many people stacked on top of each other, and so many people coming into contact. Without proper food and care, we have the potential for another epidemic on our hands. Sickness can destroy us all even if we have a victorious army marching home.” 

The room fell silent at his words. The Great Plague decimated the lands west of Mordor. It was a disease of darkness, something foul that must have been crafted by Sauron himself. Anders did not have to bring up ancient history for everyone to understand just how serious disease would destroy the population of the city. 

“Then we must prevent a plague.” Merrill said, her light voice carrying a no-nonsense tone. “We need to keep the people healthy.” 

”We have a lot of wounded people in the Houses of Healing. They are overcrowded. We are maintaining strict levels of cleanliness and getting as much fresh air and sunlight into the ward, but it will be useless if the wounded cannot regain their strength.” Anders continued. “What I need is a steady supply of fresh food.” 

“Oh, make sure there is fruit. Citrus, if you can manage to get it.” Merrill recommended. “Military rations aren't exactly suited for the sick, you see.” 

“We'll do what we can.” Isabela promised. 

“So we have our tasks.” Hawke stated. “Sebastian writes his letters to the nobility for aide, Varric and Isabela, get those tunnels looked at. Aveline and I will go over the defenses. Fenris, you will assist us. Anders and Merrill, monitor the Houses of Healing.” Hawke easily took control of the group. He had a strange sort of magnetism to him, one that made people sit down and _listen_ to what he had to say. They all departed soon enough. Hawke and Aveline left to inspect the armory. Varric departed to his rooms across the way from the Vael estate, and Isabela descended down to a tavern on the third level. Sebastian promised to keep in touch, and requested that they all speak with each other soon. Merrill insisted on walking with Anders up to the sixth level where her room was. Fenris followed behind them. Anders clutched his walking stick and focused on keeping his back straight. His leg twinged, the muscles cramping up again, but he kept moving up the steps. 

Merrill chattered about the city, about the people, about how interesting and different everything was and how she couldn't wait to help rebuild something so different and interesting. She also begged Anders to introduce her to some of the patients to see if she could somehow help. Anders nodded and promised to show Merrill around the Houses of Healing tomorrow. 

“Fenris should come as well!” Merrill insisted. “He has been a pupil of Lord Elrond's for many years, he will certainly have some insight for the healing ward!” 

“A bad idea.” Fenris interjected. “I am no expert healer. I only know small medicines.” 

“Anything could help.” Anders offered, trying to be polite. Merrill seemed so certain, and he remembered the words Elrond Half-Elven's sons said. Fenris was a favorite pupil of a great healer. He would surely know _something_ to help his patients. Anders thought of Lady Eowyn, lying pale and small in her bed, of Gárulf and his paralyzed legs, of Beor's raging fever, of the listlessness all his patients suffered after the trauma of battle and the darkness of the Witch-King's breath. If he could save them, any of them, by letting Fenris into his ward, he would gladly endure the arrogant elf's presence for as long as he had to. 

“Very well.” Fenris stated. “Tomorrow. At noon.” The elf swiftly departed then, feet barely skimming the stone tile, and Anders suppressed the sudden twist of jealousy in his heart. 

It came rarely now, his desire to move as easily as others. He could move and move well, and there were days where his pain was nothing more than a faint reminder. When he concentrated and worked hard, Anders could move without the aid of his walking staff. But there were the bad days, the days where Anders was in pain, where his leg could bear none of his weight, the days where he was forced to stay in one place and have patients brought to him, the days where he was a patient instead of the healer. On those days Anders struggled with the bitter feeling of envy. To walk without pain, without feeling exhaustion- what would that be like? Anders could hardly comprehend it. 

“I am very sorry about Fenris.” Merrill said softly. “He doesn't normally get along with strangers. Or anyone.” 

“I noticed.” Anders replied. Who didn't notice Fenris's stand-offish attitude? 

“He... he's very young, for our people. And he has a gentle heart, truly!” Merrill tried to explain it, but Anders already knew she was trying to make Fenris appear more palatable than he really was. “Despite his years, he has seen many hardships, horrors that most have never seen come to pass. He's hurting.” 

“He does not have a monopoly on suffering. Look around you.” Anders gestured over the walls to the fields, fields that were still smoking from the burnt piles of Orcs, flags flying where soldiers fell. “There is plenty of suffering to go around.” 

“I know.” Merrill said softly. “I only ask that you be patient with him, Healer. He does not mean to be cruel.” 

“I won't be his friend.” Anders warned. “But I will try to understand.” And no one could ask for more than that, could they? He would do his best and try, and Anders always tried to do what was right, what was _just_ and _helpful_. He would do the same for Fenris. 

Even if the elf didn't deserve it. 

-

They were upon him again, cold hands pawing and grabbing at him, twisting and turning his limbs, gripping his chin and lifting it to expose his throat. 

“Hmm. Mirkwood elf. Warrior. Biting sword.” A guttural voice gurgled above him. Fenris writhed, trying to escape, but rope bit his wrists and ankles, and a rough cloth covered his eyes. His eyes. He could not see, and the hands were rough as unseen eyes stared at him. 

“Yes, pretty elf. You will tell us many things.” The voice said again, and then there was the knife, cutting down his throat and chest and arms and _burning_ _him_ -! 

Fenris woke up with a shout, launching himself out of his bed and towards his weapon- the orcs, the orcs were here, they were here to hurt and maim and kill, here to destroy what was left of him- Fenris grabbed the hilt of his sword and tore it out of his scabbard, turning around to raise his sword and- 

And there was no one there. No orcs, no enemies. No one present save for the moonlight pouring through his window and turning everything silver. Fenris breathed deeply and returned his sword to his scabbard. His right arm throbbed angrily, the pain pulsing through his body to his heartbeat. He must have rolled over it in his sleep, Fenris realized. Now he was standing here, bare chested and panting, wielding a sword against ghosts. He glared at the bed as if it were his greatest enemy. He would find no rest there. 

Fenris shrugged on a robe, something of plain linen he borrowed from his host, and wandered outside his room, bare feet padding on stone until he once again found himself in the courtyard with the apple tree. He looked up into the night sky, pleased that the stars were out tonight. No one else was in the courtyard, and Fenris finally let himself relax. It was safe here, as safe as any place could be these days. He sat down in the grass surrounding the tree and leaned back against the trunk. The bark scraped at his robe and was rough against his skin. Fenris dug his toes into the earth and let the bark scratch at him. It just meant that it was _real_. 

He was in Minas Tirith, the Gondorian city. He had wandered towards the Houses of Healing and found refuge under a tree. It was safe here. It was real. The phantoms in his dreams lurked behind shadows, and he sat under starlight. Fenris shut his eyes and let himself feel. A soft swishing noise prompted him to open his eyes again, and he was surprised to find his gaze locked with the challenging lamp-like amber eyes of an enormous orange cat. 

“Mrrreow?” The cat chirped happily, and Fenris hesitantly reached out and let the cat investigate his hand. The cat's pink nose twitched as he sniffed at Fenris's fingers, and a rough cat tongue tickled the fingertips for an instant. Then the cat came closer and butted his large head under Fenris's palm. The simple display of trust warmed Fenris's heart. 

“You are the friendliest creature I've met in this forsaken fortress.” Fenris murmured as he pet the cat. The cat purred and pawed at his leg, kneading the flesh there before settling down into a spot in Fenris's lap. Fenris sighed and leaned back against the tree, still petting the cat. 

“I feel trapped here. Not that you would understand that feeling, Cat.” Fenris addressed the cat. The cat mewed. The cat's fur was sleek and soft, and he was friendly. He must be greatly loved, Fenris observed. He was well fed and clean, and extremely sweet. He had to belong to someone, as much as a cat could belong to anyone. The cat wriggled deeper into Fenris's lap, and Fenris patted the cat's head again before rubbing small circles behind the cat's ear. He lightly tapped each joint of the spine with the tip of his finger. 

“Merrill means well. She always does. But she can be a fool.” Fenris murmured to the cat. In the quiet courtyard, Fenris could admit his anxiety, his insecurity. His fears. “She believes too much in my abilities. In everyone's abilities. It is a mistake.” The cat didn't respond beyond purring even louder. 

“I have never had a talent for healing.” Fenris continued. “I have the knowledge, but not the skill.” He would be as useless in the healing wards as he was out on the battlefield right now. What could he offer that the healers would not already know? At least Hawke asked him to overlook the city defenses with the guard captain Aveline. That was a task he could do. 

“Pounce? Pounce, did you get outside again?” Fenris's spine straightened as he heard the voice of the healer, Anders, echo through the courtyard. The cat wriggled in his lap at the sound. “Pounce, I found some fresh fish for you! Shredded mackerel for the little king. Here Pounce!” The orange creature meowed, turned around three times in Fenris's lap, and departed, a streak of bright orange against the grey stone. 

“There you are Pounce!” Anders scolded, sounding as indulgent as a parent to a naughty young child. “It's far too late for you to be outside, you rascal!” Fenris heard the cat meow, and a door shut in the distance. Fenris stood up from his spot and tugged his robe closer to his body. 

He had not expected the healer to be so tender or silly. Pounce? What sort of name for a cat was _Pounce_? He shook his head at the foolish name and hurried out of the courtyard. He would not want to be caught in the courtyard by the healer. He would assume that Fenris came to spy, or bother him, and the thought bothered Fenris. He did not even think of why this thought disturbed him. It simply _did_. Fenris slunk away, and ignored the strange ache in his chest when he caught some more of the healer's inane prattle with his cat, the words floating on the wind. 

“Did you find a friend, Pounce?” Anders cooed. “Or were you out hunting mice again? But it's time to sleep now, silly boy.” 

Fenris retreated. He would find rest elsewhere tonight. 

-

Fenris arrived to the Houses of Healing early that morning. He had not found much sleep, but had retreated to another section of the gardens and watched the moon set and the sun rise. Then he returned to his room and changed into sensible clothing before returning to the healing ward. Anders was already waiting outside in the middle of the courtyard. He was dressed in his typical grey robes, his hair once again covered by a rough linen head scarf. Fenris wanted to tear it off Anders's head so the man's hair could hang loose and free. He noted that Anders still had his staff, and was leaning rather heavily on it. Fenris approached the man cautiously. Anders frowned at him, his brown eyes narrow and suspicious in the morning light. 

“Good morning.” Anders greeted him. “As soon as Lady Merrill arrives, we will begin the tour.” 

Fenris gave the man a long look. Despite the fact that the clothing was the same, Anders was less neatly attired than he was yesterday afternoon. The robes were the same drab, grey robes that covered the man from neck to toe, and he wore the same tiny gold hoop in his ear, but the robes were slightly wrinkled, and one sleeve was stained with some sort of green paste. With his hair hidden under that scrap of unbleached, ragged linen, Anders looked older, tired, and timid. Anders was not a timid man, and it frustrated Fenris to see the man pretend to be something he was not. The man was participating in a gross artifice. Fenris wanted to strip it away and reveal what made this man tick. It frightened him that he could feel such strong irritation over a stranger- where was his self-control? The fabled elven disinterest? It all melted away like snow in the spring when faced against this enigmatic, fascinating human. 

“Lady Merrill will be late.” Fenris stated. “She tends to be late to everything, through no malice of her own.” Merrill would show up and apologize profusely for her lateness. She would also be in her traditional robes and circlet to try and show her full respect to the human healers. Fenris could see it all very clearly, so he was not surprised to see Merrill rushing towards them, tripping over the hem of her green and silver embroidered robes, her simple silver circlet slightly askew on her head. She apologized profusely to Anders as she hurried across the courtyard. 

“Please forgive my lateness, Healer Anders! I could not find the main courtyard, and when I realized how lost I was I found myself on the third level of the city!” 

“Please don't trouble yourself. Shall we begin?” Anders asked, and he led them through the courtyard to the main doorway of the Houses of Healing. 

Fenris maintained a position behind Anders and Merrill as they walked the halls. While Anders described the daily routine in the hall and the healer rotations. 

“We want to ensure the best care, and to help with that we've been rotating our healers so they can get some rest. We're just returning to a working schedule, but the past few days have been difficult for everyone.” Anders explained. “Many of our healers run the risk of becoming ill themselves, as they have not gotten the rest they need.” 

“I see.” Merrill said sympathetically. “Have the volunteers helped alleviate the demand for healers?” 

“Some.” Anders stated. “But they do not have the training necessary for something as serious as setting a broken limb. The injuries we are seeing are beyond their skill, or what they can even comprehend. We have mostly been scheduling them to sit with recovering patients, or help clean linens and fetch bandages. Even so, everyone is busy.” 

“How are the patients coping?” Fenris asked. Learning about the healers was important, but this was the important, necessary information Fenris needed if he could be of any use in this place. 

“Better than expected, but not as well as I would hope.” Anders said quietly. “These men are warriors now, but many are farmers. Herdsmen. It pains them to be left off the battlefield, but it destroys them when they learn they may never hold a plow again.” 

Fenris understood that sort of pain, that sort of doubt. He felt it now, as he stood in the stone hall. He _knew_ what these men felt. 

“It is even more difficult because many of these men don't speak Westron.” Anders continued. “I speak Rohirric, but I can't be in two places at once. It has been trying.” 

“I could... attempt to speak with them.” Fenris offered hesitantly. It was a small thing, hardly anything of note, but it was a task Fenris could accomplish. “I know some Rohirric.” 

“Fenris is quite good with languages!” Merrill piped up. “And he would love to help! He could teach the healers and help translate! That is a wonderful idea, Fenris!” 

“It would be most appreciated.” Anders said. While Fenris knew the man was telling the truth, he could sense the healer's reluctance to invite Fenris further into the daily routine of the Houses of Healing. “Now, if you'll both follow me.” 

Fenris snagged the edge of Merrill's flowing sleeve and muttered in her ear in Sindarian. 

“What nonsense is this? Giving language lessons to healers?” Fenris hissed, and Merrill patted his hand with the patience of a parent comforting a child. 

“You need to get out and about, speak with people besides me.” Merrill replied, also in Sindarian. “And I know you're suffering. You need tasks that will challenge you, stimulate your mind. Tasks that will be _useful_ to the people here.” And as much as Fenris disliked it, he knew that Merrill was right. 

He needed to go outside, he needed to experience life outside his ever dwindling circle of elven friends. More than that, Fenris _wanted_ to escape the cage he found himself in. He would be useful this way. He could _help_ people with his knowledge. 

“I will help.” Fenris said grudgingly. “But do not expect me to befriend the humans. Or the healer.” He glanced to Anders, who was speaking urgently to a small woman with golden skin and sleek black hair tied back from her face. Her dark eyes shifted over to the elves, then back to Anders's face. Fenris and Merrill slowly approached the two. 

“Yes, Healer Anders, I have tried giving him willow bark tea, sweetened with honey. The nightmares persist, and it is dangerous for the volunteers to come close when he wakes. He does not know where he is, or when.” The woman said quietly. “I would resolve this myself, but I would be unable to restrain him if something should...” Her voice trailed off as she spoke. 

“I understand, Healer Evelyn.” Anders said gently. “And I approve of your discretion and good sense. You've done everything right. Bring another healer, or even a guard, with you for the times you need to wake him.” 

“Of course, Healer Anders.” The woman said quietly. “He has not harmed anyone yet. C- the Captain, he's simply confused. He always apologizes afterwards, when he's awake. He's quite polite.” 

“Yes. This is only a precaution. Bring someone with you when you must wake him from his nightmares.” Anders instructed, and the woman nodded again. 

“Yes, Healer.” She said. “I am sorry to interrupt you and your guests.” She hurried away, her grey robes swishing over stone tile. Anders sighed and held onto his walking staff a little more tightly. Merrill and Fenris approached him. 

“Is there a problem? Any way we can help?” Merrill asked, as if she had not overheard the conversation. 

“A patient is struggling with the aftermath of battle.” Anders said shortly. “He needs more rest, but has been unable to sleep. Healer Evelyn says it is a combination of physical and emotional pain that prevents him from recovering. It is not an uncommon ailment here.” 

“We will sit with some of your patients.” Merrill promised. “And we will see what can be done.” 

“I would be grateful, Lady Merrill.” Anders said, the picture of perfect politeness. 

“Please, just Merrill.” Merrill said with a smile. “We're friends, are we not?” 

“Of course. Merrill.” Anders replied, the exhaustion melting away from his face as he smiled at Merrill, and Fenris struggled with a burning feeling traveling from his gut to his throat, tightening in his chest and making it difficult to breathe. “Now, if you'll follow me up, I'll introduce you to some of our patients.” As Merrill and Anders walked ahead of him, Anders's head slightly bent over to catch every word Merrill uttered, Fenris recognized what that hot feeling in his chest was. 

It was envy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading, leaving kudos, bookmarking, and/or commenting on this story! I appreciate it a lot!
> 
> Also, I have had a lot of trouble figuring out which tags I should use for this story. If anyone has any recommendations for tags I should include, could you let me know? It'd be much appreciated! Thank you!


	3. Chapter 3

Fenris fell into a strange but not unwelcome routine as the days passed in the city. He woke before dawn and performed his morning ablutions. He stretched his aching muscles and struggled to get dressed into sensible clothing. Fenris would fling his cloak over his shoulders and leave his rooms for a quick breakfast. He often woke before Merrill, but on the few days he didn't, they shared their food. Then she would depart to the Houses of Healing, and he would go to the Hall of Records and explore them for the morning. His research bore some fruit- he found more maps, more old treaties, and old shipping records that gave them all ideas of where to buy supplies. 

Some days he met with Hawke and Aveline to discuss defenses. They were confident that the city's walls would hold against another attack against rogue orc bands, but it would not hold against invasion. Aveline establish guard rotations, and Hawke took it upon himself to train recruits in archery. Fenris supervised training for the soldiers and suggested training more lookouts, a suggestion Aveline immediately supported. 

“We need more eyes looking to the East.” She said firmly. “Just in case.” 

It was always a case of “Just in case.” 

The rest of his time was spent in the Houses of Healing, working alongside the healers and teaching them basic Rohirric. In particular, Fenris spent a good deal of time with Anders. Anders was the one to escort him through the halls. Anders introduced him to healers and warriors who needed his help. Anders was the one who periodically checked on his arm to ensure it was healing properly. Fenris soon found that many of his days were spent in the healer's company. The two reached an uneasy companionship based on mutual end goals: they would cooperate in order to protect the people of Minas Tirith. It did not mean they were friends. Fenris never intended for them to become friends. 

Fenris's intentions got lost somewhere between the fourth and eighth day of prolonged contact with Anders. 

He tried to avoid the man, tried to keep from speaking with him, but Anders drew people to him like water drew animals. It was impossible to stay away. At first Fenris tried to be combative, to fight Anders off. He was rude, he argued, he scoffed. He expected Anders to behave like every other mortal he met, to ignore or eagerly agree with his statements because of his race, and it would give Fenris the perfect excuse to avoid Anders forever. He would be like everyone else, every other mortal who fawned and flattered and swarmed for his attention when all he wanted was honesty. 

“Ah, the butchery that is mortal medicine.” Fenris remarked acidly after a difficult day in the Houses of Healing. He felt tired and bitter. Despite everything they tried, they still had to amputate a man's arm. Gangrene had set in. There was no other choice. He had a better chance at surviving now, but at what cost? He had said the words under his breath, but Anders heard him. Anders, who was more exhausted than he (he performed the amputation with only human strength and stamina), suddenly straightened up. His knuckles turned white on the staff he held, and his lips became nothing more than a thin, angry line on his face. His eyes burned like twin pools of fire in his narrow, pale face. 

“Follow me, Master Elf.” Anders hissed furiously. “ _Now_.” 

What followed was a scolding so brutal that Fenris felt like a child again. Anders called him every possible name in the book, from “a bitter excuse of a living being” to “the absolute antithesis of what a decent feeling creature is.” Anders railed and shouted at him until the dinner bells chimed, pacing back and forth in what the healers generously called a supply closet, and Fenris had never felt more ashamed in his life. Anders brutally and efficiently lay out Fenris's many faults and waved them in front of his face. Three hundred years, and no one understood him as much as Anders did in only three days. 

Fenris was proud. He was bitter. He was angry. He always had to be right. And he was terribly restless, and it made him all the more irritable. 

“You're like a wolf in a cage, snapping at everyone and everything because you're hurting.” Anders finally said. “And if this were any other time, any other place, I would let you do as you please and avoid you. But you have come into my ward, and are around _my_ patients. You _will_ behave yourself.” 

“Or else?” Fenris retorted, hiding his embarrassment under harsh words. “I have lived lifetimes more than you, human. I have lived through things you can hardly imagine!” He was angry and ashamed, because Anders was right. This was neither the time or place to act so selfishly. 

“You are acting like a human child of three.” Anders said with some measure of finality. “I expect better.” With that Anders left the supply closet, and Fenris left to go sulk in his favored courtyard. He once again spent the night staring at the moon and the stars, and hoping for some sort of answer to the frustration and confusion that warred in his heart. 

The next morning he spoke with Anders privately. 

“I have been foolish, and treated you and your station poorly as a result.” Fenris said stiffly. “I apologize, Healer.” 

“I understand. I trust you will behave better in the future.” Anders asked, and Fenris agreed. 

That was the beginning of their agreement. Fenris swore he would never look down on the other mortals, and Anders promised not to lose his temper. Their days together passed in relative silence. They kept to themselves and only spoke to each other when they had to. But somehow it changed, in small steps that seemed so insignificant that they never noticed the change until it had already long begun. 

-

“I wish Lord Sebastian would stop sending noblewomen over here to assist in the houses.” Anders complained one afternoon as he sorted through salves and ointments he brought in a wicker basket. “We need more bandages than unskilled hands at the moment.” 

“It does not help that more than half of them end up on the cots themselves, after they faint at the sight of a limb that must be reset.” Fenris replied, mostly to himself. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Anders laughed, a chuckle that came deep from his chest and filled the small room they were in. The patient they were tending to, a stable boy with a cut on his foot, stared at them quizzically, as if the two were a bit strange in the head. But it was that bit of laughter that changed things between them. They were not friends, but they had found common ground. They could work together, and they could laugh when the day was done. 

That first shared laugh led to this moment, Fenris thought with some mild bewilderment as he sat on a bench with Anders and shared in a small meal after their work in the Houses of Healing. Merrill had left earlier, to speak with Isabela about transporting medical supplies. Fenris stayed with Anders to speak with some of the wounded Riders who were convalescing in an inner courtyard. They watched as the sun slowly set and the sky turned a pretty shade of pink. 

“You have a decent accent.” Anders remarked. He poured more mint tea into his mug and handed Fenris a thick slice of bread slathered with honey. Anders stretched out his left leg in front of him. His staff lay on the floor beneath the bench. Fenris wondered what encouraged Anders to break their shared silence. They had been sitting here quietly for nearly half an hour before Anders said a word. 

“That is, you don't have one. A noticeable one.” Anders added hastily. “When did you learn Rohirric?” 

“Hmmm...” Fenris thought back to when he first began learning the other language, nearly two hundred years ago when he was but a child. He had wandered to the borderlands of his home and came across a small group of Rohirrim. In particular, he quite literally ran into a human boy, a squire with a group of Riders who were scouting the uninhabited areas north of their borders. Though the squire only spoke Rohirric, and Fenris only spoke Sindarian and Quenya, somehow they managed to convey what they wanted to say. They shared their names, a few words in their languages (sun, stars, horse, fields, tree), and where the best spots to gather food and find water were in the area. The boy confessed that they would leave the next morning in order to hunt for a small troop of orcs on their borders, and Fenris wished them well. He never met the boy again, but the encounter sparked Fenris's long love of language. 

“Master Fenris?” Anders's voice pulled Fenris out of his memories. Fenris blinked before staring up into Anders's face. The man's brown eyes appeared concerned until Fenris seemed to look at him. He smirked, and that smirk irritated Fenris like nothing else in this world. “Oh, good. You're back.” 

“Memories.” Fenris said quietly. Irritably. “Just memories.” 

“So. Rohirric.” Anders commented, ignoring Fenris's less than friendly behavior. “You don't have an accent, and I would know! I speak Rohirric like I'm from the Eastmark, even though I haven't been back in years.” 

“I learned it a long time ago.” Fenris finally said. He was not comfortable with sharing his past with Anders. He wasn't comfortable sharing _anything_ with Anders. But something about the man encouraged him to let down his barriers. “I continued to practice through the years.” 

“I'm glad.” Anders murmured before taking a sip of his tea. Fenris joined him, sipping on his mint tea and sighing in relief as the warm liquid coursed down his throat. The race of men were not nearly as refined as the elves. They were not as elegant, as light, as ancient as what he was used to. Their tastes were harsher, earthier. But this simple mint tea served in a heavy earthenware mug was better than any wine served at Lord Elrond's table. 

“It is a good skill to have.” Fenris said into the companionable silence. “And I am glad it is useful here.” 

“You've been useful, Master Fenris.” Anders finally stated. “Though you're not what I imagined, as an elf.” 

“Oh?” Fenris asked. Perhaps it was the tea, or the exhaustion from the work of the day, or even the fact that he had so few people who seemed to understand him, but Fenris took no offense to Anders's statement. In fact, he was curious. “What did you expect?” 

“Someone more, well... regal, I suppose.” Anders said after a moment of contemplation. Anders's eyebrows furrowed, and he bit his lip. “Though that isn't the right word. I've met nobles. Work with them daily, even. Healer Evelyn's the youngest child of wealthy noble family in Lamedon, and Princess Lotheriel is... well, obviously she's a princess.” 

“Obviously.” Fenris agreed, hiding his smirk behind his mug of tea. Anders scowled at him, but the expression held no real heat. 

“I suppose I thought you'd be more... removed from it all. Less attached to this world. To the people here.” Anders finally said. “But you're not, are you?” Fenris set the mug down on the bench and sighed deeply. 

“You must remember, Healer Anders. I am very young for an elf.” Fenris said quietly. “Many elves have grown... tired of Middle-Earth. That is why there is a difference.” 

Even now Fenris thought of his kinsmen voyaging to the West, to move on into the Undying Lands, and he was filled with a sense of deep sorrow. He knew he could leave, and part of him _wanted_ to leave this world and all its cares and horrors behind, but Fenris was not _ready_ to go. Sometimes Fenris was struck with a sense of the absolute unfairness of it all. He was born so late, and now that he was considered old enough to travel and see the world, he would have to leave it. 

“So you aren't tired of this world? How long have you been... unless that's rude to ask. Sorry. Don't want to intrude.” Anders ducked his head, and all Fenris could see were a few strands of golden red hair and that rag covering the man's head. 

“I have lived for nearly three centuries.” Fenris said. “And somehow it is not enough time. Selfish of me, perhaps.” 

“Three hundred- no, no it's not- that is, you are immortal, three centuries would be... you were around before my great-grandfather was a twinkle in his great-grandmother's eye!” Anders finally sputtered out, and the strange combination of embarrassed shock and stuttered apologies amused Fenris. He laughed, throwing his head back and howling with laughter. It wasn't dignified, not like the elves were _supposed_ to be, but laughing felt right. It felt _good_. And when Fenris took in Anders's surprised confusion, he knew laughing was the right thing to do. 

“Oh, go ahead! Laugh at the silly human!” Anders grumbled, but he was smiling. Fenris smiled too, and they returned to their tea. Fenris no longer felt alone in this city of stone. 

-

“Fenris has been happier than he's been in ages.” Merrill remarked as they walked up to Lord Sebastian Vael's home. Merrill held her robes tightly to try and keep the hem from trailing in the mud and grime of the streets. Anders hobbled next to her with his staff. His leg was improving slowly, and he kept his staff with him to keep stress off his leg as it recovered its strength. 

“Truly?” Anders could believe it, would believe it, but he saw how Fenris laughed when they spoke together, how he would sometimes smile when he spoke with the other warriors in the ward. Fenris was serious, but he also had a fine smile and deep laugh that filled the listener's ears with the sound. He found humor in the smallest of things. He sat with the oldest warriors and recounted border skirmishes on the edge of the woodlands, discussed the old stories he heard and recorded. He also played chess, and played it well. He and Captain Cullen, Evelyn's charge, had a game outside that had been going on for the past two days. Anders freely admitted that the game had long gone over his head, but enjoyed listening to Fenris describe each move he _could_ have done had Cullen chosen to move a knight instead of a pawn (“He is competitive and a fast learner.” Fenris groused as Anders cut up marigold petals). 

Whatever the case was, Anders knew that Fenris had a sense of humor. So why was it that no one else could be bothered to see it? Did no one try to understand Fenris, try and understand what made the elf happy? Did no one else care? The idea that Fenris had been alone for three hundred years without someone to make him laugh hurt Anders more than he thought it would. 

“Fenris was always serious, ever since he was a boy.” Merrill said quietly. “Well, for as long as I've known him.” 

“I find that hard to believe.” Anders replied as Merrill looked at the items for sale in a booth. “Master Fenris is good-humored, when you give him half a chance.” 

“Well, I did hear that he was very mischievous as a child. Always in some scrape or another. I even heard that he was fond of singing, once upon a time.” Merrill “But then that battle happened, and when they recovered him- oh dear, I should not have said that.” 

“What? What battle?” Anders pressed, but Merrill bit her lips and said no more. Anders tried to think of what could have possibly happened to Fenris then, but everything that came to mind was so dark and horrible that Anders didn't want to think of it. He walked with Merrill in silence, and returned to the Houses of Healing, his chest aching with a pain he didn't quite understand. 

-

“What were you like, growing up?” Anders asked as he and Fenris worked in the infirmary kitchen. They were stirring up more ointment for cuts, something to soothe the red, irritated, inflamed skin where the needle and thread sewed up the gashes of battle. Anders tasked Fenris to stirring the pot, the only task that Fenris could perform with one hand. Anders watched like a hawk, even as he cut up the plants they needed for the mixture. The heat on the ointments had to be _just_ right, and Anders had long perfected the practice. 

“Pardon?” Fenris asked. His white hair was braided back into one long tail that hung down his back. Loose strands stuck to his forehead, and Anders saw a bead of sweat roll down his face, cling to his jaw and throat and- my, it was rather hot in the room, wasn't it? Even for a fine spring day! 

“Your childhood.” Anders elaborated, fighting down his blush. Just the heat, yes. Would have an effect on anyone! “What is an elven childhood like?” 

“Long.” Fenris replied, and he ignored Anders's eye roll. “Different, depending where you are. I was born in Mirkwood. We are more war-like, wilder than many of the other elves. I learned much of the forest growing up. How to navigate, what to harvest, how to hunt. What was safe and unsafe.” Fenris stirred the concoction in the pot three times to the left, then three times to the right. “What was your childhood like? Where did you come from?” 

“Oh, well.” Anders's knife almost slipped from his hand as he fumbled with his fingers and with the question asked. How to answer, how to answer. “Is it that obvious that I'm not a born Gondorian?” He joked, smiling slightly. Fenris raised one dark eyebrow, and Anders felt his face heat up under Fenris's examination. He just had this _look_ that seemed to tear him down to his foundations. 

“I was born in the Eastmark in Rohan. My mother is Gondorian, but she went west after she met my father.” Anders explained as he resumed chopping up plants. “I'm the eldest of their children, and the only son.” 

“And you came from Rohan to Gondor because...?” 

“I traveled to live with my grandmother and become a healer. The training in Minas Tirith is unmatched, and my mother knew I had a gift for it.” Anders said. “And I would never be a warrior because of...” Anders let the sentence fade into nothing as he glanced down at his left leg. He would never wield a sword, or ride a horse, or run through the fields with the sun in his hair. He would never get the chance. 

“In any case, that was why. There was no life for me in Rohan. I would be useless there.” Anders finished up quickly. “But I had opportunities in Gondor. I am content now. I have my work, my patients, and my cat. I don't need anything else.” 

Fenris was silent for some time, and the sound of the crackling fire and footsteps of several healers filling that silence. 

“Rohan needs healers as much as anywhere. It is a valuable position.” Fenris said cautiously, but Anders shook his head in disagreement. 

“Not a healer who can't ride. My mother knew the moment I was born I would never be a warrior. She saw my leg and _knew_. Took my father a longer time to come around to it, but he did. Unhappily.” Anders snorted. “Not much use for me back home.” 

“It is their loss.” Fenris said firmly, and Anders was surprised at the finality in Fenris's voice. When Fenris said those words, it sounded true. He gave the elf a weak smile and shifted his weight slightly, his leg protesting the change. 

“That's... a comfort to hear.” Anders finally said, setting his knife down on the table and edging over towards Fenris. “Move over, I'll stir these in.” Fenris shuffled over and let Anders dump the plants into the kettle, and handed the wooden spoon to Anders. Anders stirred quickly to prevent the mixture from solidifying in the copper kettle. 

“How long do we wait before this ointment can be used?” Fenris asked. 

“A few hours to cool. So it will be ready by sunset.” Anders replied. “Grab those jars we cleaned earlier, will you? We'll pour it in and let it cool there.” 

Fenris seemed to understand that Anders no longer wanted to talk about his childhood, and silently did as Anders asked. Perhaps it was an elf thing, quietly letting a topic go, but Anders suspected it was more a Fenris quirk than anything else. Whatever it was, Anders was grateful for it. Fenris never saw the need to clutter their company with needless chatter. He understood the value of silence. 

They finished their task and cleaned up after themselves. Anders scoured the pot clean and labeled the ointments, while Fenris carefully covered the jars full of ointment and set them on the table to cool. Once they were done they left the kitchen, their shift in the healing ward finally done for the day. Anders was relieved to finally have a bit of time to rest. While he was one of the best healers, and often referenced as a Head Healer, Anders was ordered by his higher ups to take a day away from the House to “recover from the horrors of battle,” and Anders only put up a minimal protest. He needed to get away, if only for a little while. 

“What do you plan to do tomorrow, Master Fenris?” Anders asked. He would not be in the Houses, and he would be restless without some task. Perhaps Fenris would offer him some suggestions. 

“In the morning I will drill the soldiers with Hawke and Aveline. Then I plan to ride in the afternoon.” Fenris said. “Sirdal has been restless these past days.” 

“Sirdal?” Anders asked, and was surprised by Fenris's smile. It wasn't a smile, not really, more of a twitching upturn of his lips, but his face was suddenly lighter. More radiant. 

“My horse. I will introduce you, if you wish.” 

“I'm not particularly good with horses.” Anders mumbled. Horses seemed to sense something off about him. Maybe they smelled his fear, or they knew he couldn't ride and were secretly judging him for it. 

“A man of Rohan, not good with horses?” Anders wasn't certain, but he could swear that Fenris was teasing him. “Come to the stables tomorrow, after the afternoon bell chimes.” Fenris ordered. 

“Fine, but it's a bad idea.” Anders warned before he took up his staff and hobbled up a small set of stairs leading to his rooms. He was shocked that Fenris wanted to spend time with him. He was shocked that Fenris _voluntarily_ offered to be around him. Perhaps this was a sign of... friendship? Anders wasn't exactly opposed to the idea. Friendship with Fenris was... well, he liked the idea very much. And even though Anders hurried to his rooms to let Pounce outside for his daily stroll, Fenris followed his every step. 

“We will see.” Fenris replied enigmatically as Anders entered the courtyard where they first met. Anders saw then that he did not have to hurry to let Pounce outside his room. The cat somehow found a way out by his own power. Anders wondered if he forgot to lock his door again. 

Pounce wound around his legs, rubbing his large orange head against his robes. He seemed quite happy, purring and chirping lightly with every lash of his tail. 

“Your cat?” Fenris asked with that tiny smile of his that Anders was finding he rather liked. 

“As much mine as anybody's.” Anders replied. “This is Pounce, Lord of the Houses of Healing.” 

“Good evening, Lord Pounce.” Fenris addressed the cat solemnly, to which Pounce meowed. “I will take leave of you and Healer Anders. Tomorrow.” 

“Yes, tomorrow.” Anders promised. “I won't forget.” 

Fenris left with a nod of his head and a swish of his cloak, and Anders let himself into his room, Pounce following at his heels. Anders wouldn't forget, because this was something new and interesting, something that made Fenris look happy and _young_. There was a gleam of excitement deep in those green eyes, a sort of wildness that Anders remembered from when he was young, before he realized that he couldn't do what other boys and girls his age could. 

When Fenris suggested that Anders meet his horse, he looked as happy as Merrill claimed he had become. 

“Well, Pounce.” Anders addressed the cat as he struggled out of his robe to get ready for bed. “I'll just have to go down tomorrow and see what we can see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading, leaving kudos, commenting, and/or bookmarking this story!


	4. Chapter 4

Fenris brushed Sirdal down until his coat gleamed a rich brown like polished wood. His horse bore the fussing with extreme patience, though Fenris knew it was because he sensed the treat hidden in the belt pouch at Fenris's side. He snuck a sugar cube from the breakfast tea he had with Sebastian and Varric. Sebastian took his tea with milk, and Varric with a dose of some strong liquor from his flask. Fenris took it plain, and grabbed the cube from the tray while Sebastian and Varric argued about which noble houses were most helpful in their quest to raise repair funds for the city. 

“Best not mess with the dwarves, my noble companion.” Varric said easily. “They tend to bury their heads in the dirt. And do _not_ write to Lady Harlmann, she will do her best to set you up with one of her daughters and then off you in an accident to take your land.” 

“The Harlmanns have been family friends for-” Sebastian protested, but Varric had cut him off with a hand wave. 

“Marriage, Sebastian. With the Harlmanns.” Whoever the Harlmanns were, the concept of marrying into the family seemed to be enough to turn Sebastian's face ashen. Fenris quickly dismissed himself from the table, slipping his prize into his pouch. 

Sirdal nudged his right arm, attempting to get to the treat, and Fenris lightly pushed him away. 

“Greedy creature. Patience.” Fenris scolded lightly as he ran the brush through Sirdal's dark mane. Some of the Rohirric and Gondorian stable boys watched as he groomed his horse, the tow-headed boys critically eyeing Sirdal's every movement. He half expected one of the boys to come up and ask if he was planning to breed the stallion. He could see the questions behind their eyes. But they did not ask, so Fenris did not answer. 

“It will do no good if you look anything less than perfect.” Fenris murmured to his horse. Anders was a very neat man, Fenris noted. Even if he was covered in grime, he kept a clean station and a neat appearance whenever he could. Anders was not _vain_ , but he was tidy. Even as Anders worked he maintained a certain level of cleanliness on his person. Anders was a mass of contradictions and oddities, a mix that seemed too complex to exist in one person. 

Fenris had never felt so drawn to another person in his entire life. 

When Anders asked about his childhood, and then described his own, Fenris knew they shared a bond of sorts. Anders felt no connection to his nation of birth, much like Fenris felt little loyalty for Mirkwood beyond the ties that bound most elves together as a race. Anders was so often alone, and Fenris knew what it was to be alone. He suffered from it even now. And above it all, Fenris knew that Anders needed a friend as much as Fenris needed a companion. What better way to build a friendship than to spend time together? 

The afternoon bell chimed once. Over the clear chime of that bell, Fenris heard the gentle thud of the end of a wooden staff hitting stone cobblestones, and then landing in the straw covered packed dirt of the stables. He turned around to greet Anders, and was somewhat shocked to see him. At least, to see what the man was _wearing_. 

The grey healer robes were gone. The scrap of linen that covered his head was torn away. Anders's golden hair was pulled back in a stubby tail, his chin and jaw covered by a faint bit of scruff. He must have forgotten to shave, Fenris thought faintly. What was more surprising was that Anders was dressed in a soft blue tunic, fawn colored leggings, and dark brown boots. 

Fenris finally saw why Anders walked with a limp and used a staff. 

Oh, he had his suspicions, of course. Fenris was not blind. He knew that Anders had some sort of injury that prevented him from walking freely, but this... this was no recent injury. This was something Anders lived with for a long time. His entire life. While not noticeable at first glance, Fenris saw that Anders's left leg was somewhat thinner than his right. The fabric hung differently there, looser than the fabric surrounding his right leg. This was why Anders walked with a staff, why he sometimes winced when he shifted his weight. Why he walked slowly, gingerly, carefully calculating his steps before making them. This was why Anders wore his healer robes everywhere, even outside the Houses of Healing. This was why Anders could not stay in Rohan. He could not ride and fight with a leg that was twisted. A leg that was weak. 

“Are you quite done?” Anders asked icily, and Fenris tore his gaze away from Anders's leg. Anders was glaring at him, his brown eyes burning with what Fenris could only assume was a mix of frustration and shame. But there was nothing for Anders to be ashamed of. Was he not a great healer? Was he not more than just his body? Fenris berated himself for staring. It was wrong. He had made Anders uncomfortable, and it was the last thing he wanted. 

“I apologize.” Fenris said softly. “I did not realize-” 

“I did not come here for your pity.” Anders retorted, brushing past Fenris. “I came because you wanted me to meet your horse.” He was holding himself up as stiff as a board, and Fenris knew it was because of him. Because of his rudeness, Anders was now uncomfortable. This was not what Fenris intended. He had only wanted to spend time with Anders outside the Houses of Healing. He had not meant to insult or hurt Anders in any way. Fenris edged over to Anders's side. Anders was staring at Sirdal, who snorted and nudged at Anders's elbow with his nose. 

“This is Sirdal.” Fenris said quietly. “He is calm and rather sweet. A surprise, considering his sire.” His father was the worst tempered stallion in his herd, a war horse without peer. Sirdal, on the other hand, was as physically strong as his father and as sweet as his mother. 

“Hello, Sirdal.” Anders murmured, and he reached over to pet the stallion's nose. “He is lovely.” Anders's shoulders relaxed, and a smile crossed his features. The harsh lines and dark circles under his eyes melted away with that smile, that good cheer and sweetness so evident in his features. There was a sort of wistfulness present as well, one that Fenris felt he knew. He understood longing, and he saw that Anders was longing for something different. He was restrained by his leg, but Anders had a spirit that drank freedom like water. And Fenris knew he could help his friend best by helping him feel free. 

“Would you come with me?” Fenris asked, making his voice soft. Gentle. Not an order, but a request. “I must exercise Sirdal in the yard.” 

“I'm... not sure.” Anders said softly. “I'm not good with horses.” 

“Sirdal likes you well enough.” Fenris murmured. “And I will be there.” 

“I suppose I can go, then.” Anders mumbled after a moment of silence. Fenris took Sirdal's saddle blanket and saddle from the wall, and draped the reins over his shoulder. He adjusted his burdens and opened the the stall door and lay the blanket and saddle over Sirdal's back. He pressed his hand against Sirdal's withers and pushed him forward. 

“Follow me, then.” He said calmly as he led Sirdal out of his stall. A moment later, he heard the familiar thump thump of Anders's staff, and Fenris allowed himself a tiny smile as he exited the stables. 

The yard was bright with warm spring sunshine. A few riders were out with their horses, but most of the ring was empty. There was plenty of room for Sirdal to run through his paces. Fenris adjusted the reins over Sirdal's head, fumbling with the straps. It was hard to do this with only one hand. Another hand joined his: pale, freckled, long-fingered and slender, calloused at the finger tips. 

“I can tighten these.” Anders said quietly. “If you guide me.” 

“Very well.” Fenris murmured, and he let Anders take over. Sirdal patiently endured the slow process of being saddled. Once it was done, Fenris tugged on the reins. Yes, it was good. And now... Fenris glanced over towards Anders was lightly petting Sirdal's neck, a look of wonder crossing his face as the horse leaned into his touch. An idea crossed Fenris's mind, and before he could stop and think it through, he was already moving. He placed his right hand on Anders's shoulder, and a bright, warm, bubbling feeling, a sense of great joy and excitement, raced through his body. Anders turned and raised an eyebrow, clearly puzzled. 

“I will teach you to ride.” Fenris said firmly, and Anders's surprised pleasure was more than enough reward for him. 

“But I don't- I don't know how!” Anders protested, his face flushing so bright red that the freckles splattered across his cheeks and the bridge of his long nose disappeared. Fenris nudged Anders on the shoulder, an easy motion that he would have done with Elladan, or Elrohir, or even Hawke. It was a motion he would do with a friend. 

Anders, a friend? The thought stayed there, echoing in his mind as Anders stared at him, brown eyes wide and cheeks flushed bright pink. A _friend_. 

“I will teach you.” Fenris promised again. “Come. I will assist you.” 

“This is ridiculous.” Anders protested, but he did not move away. He let Fenris led him to a mounting block off to the side of the yard. “This won't work, you know.” 

“It will.” Fenris said calmly, attempting to soothe Anders's obvious panic. “Climb up.” Fenris held onto Sirdal's reins as Anders carefully clambered up the wooden mounting block after leaning his staff against the stone wall surrounding the training area. 

“Now put your foot through the stirrup, and hold onto him. Pull yourself up and throw your leg over.” Fenris said firmly. He kept a careful eye on Anders as he held onto Sirdal, slipped his left foot into the stirrup. Fenris watched carefully, ready to catch Anders should he collapse under the strain. But Fenris did not have to worry as Anders slowly hoisted himself up and into the saddle. He sat tall and proud on Sirdal's back, his blonde hair fluttering in the breeze like gold ribbons, the wind rustling his blue tunic. Fenris tried not to laugh at the bemused, awed expression that crossed Anders's face. 

“Keep your back straight. Keep your weight balanced.” Fenris instructed, eyeing Anders's posture with a critical eye. It was good enough, standing perfectly still, but it would change when Sirdal began to walk. 

“I'm... I did it.” Anders murmured to himself, so quiet that Fenris was pretty certain he wasn't supposed to hear it. “I'm riding a horse.” 

“Not yet.” Fenris replied. “Use your legs. I will lead Sirdal around the paddock.” 

“Why are you doing this?” Anders demanded. Fenris glanced up, and was surprised by the confusion written all over Anders's face. He had thought it was obvious. 

“Because it is something you can do, with proper training.” Fenris said. “Are you holding onto the reins?” 

“Yes, but-” Anders's protests were cut off by a slight shriek as Fenris clucked his tongue and encouraged Sirdal to walk. Sirdal walked slowly, one hoof in front of the other, his gait patient and smooth. Fenris kept his hand on Sirdal's neck, mostly for Anders's comfort than for leading the horse. 

“Yes, good.” Fenris said encouragingly. “Bring your knees in a little, squeeze in with your thighs.” Anders followed Fenris's instructions and held on tightly to the reins the whole while. 

They walked around the paddock, each step slow and easy. Little by little, Fenris saw Anders's hands ease off the reins, watched as Anders's legs relaxed, how his form change for the better now that he released the coiled tension in his body. Anders's guarded expression melted into a small smile, one that completely transformed his face. He didn't look nearly as tired as he did at the Houses of Healing. Anders looked _happy_. Anders _was_ happy. 

Fenris was happy too. 

Fenris helped Anders get off Sirdal's back after several rounds around the paddock. He held out a hand to give Anders some stability, and his heart fluttered when Anders took it, placing his palm firmly in Fenris's own hand. 

Anders had slender fingers. They were tough from work and cool against his skin. And Anders's hands were _strong_. He could have been a warrior, Fenris thought, had circumstances been different. He had the strength and the build. But then he might have, would have, been on a battlefield. Had Anders been a warrior, he might not have ended up here with Fenris, his golden hair fluttering in the breeze. Anders might be dead. 

Fenris was thankful that was not the case. 

“I never thought I could do that before.” Anders said, smiling brightly down at Fenris. “I... thank you.” Anders was still holding Fenris's hand. Why was he holding Fenris's hand? 

“You are welcome.” Fenris replied. “We should... unsaddle Sirdal. Rub him down.” 

“Oh? I would very much like to see you ride.” Anders replied, still smiling. Then a faint shadow crossed over Anders's face, a faint image of pain flittering over his features before it smoothed out. 

“Will you be well?” Fenris asked quietly, and when Anders smiled it felt like the sun shining on his face. He had not realized the neat and serious healer could be so _warm_. 

“I will be fine, Lord Fenris. I've endured far worse. It is only mildly sore.” 

“You will sit down, though.” Fenris tugged at Anders's hand, leading him over to a low stone bench. Anders sat down slowly, subtly rubbing at his knee. 

“Of course.” Anders said graciously. “Now go! I'll be just fine!” 

After a moment's hesitation, where Fenris carefully gauged Anders's expressions, searching for a sign of discontent, Fenris stepped away. 

“Very well.” Fenris said shortly, and retreated to Sirdal. A strange feeling bubbled up inside of him as he walked, something that was a mix between joy and excitement. He was a decent enough rider, and this was a chance to show Anders his own talents. “Stay for longer, so we may take a meal together?” 

“Certainly.” Anders replied, and Fenris walked to Sirdal with a bit more fire to his step. Now all he had to do was impress Anders. 

Fenris could hardly wait. 

-

Anders watched Fenris and Sirdal trot around the paddock, and was surprised to find that he did not feel the typical twinge of bitterness or envy as he watched. Perhaps it was because Fenris rode differently from people of Rohan or Gondor. Perhaps it was because Fenris was Fenris, and Anders was not jealous of _Fenris_. Of all people, it was an immortal elf, the wisest and fairest creature to walk Middle Earth, that Anders felt no envy for. 

Anders knew it was because no one had ever offered to teach him to ride before. His mother thought he was too fragile, his father believed it impossible, and his sisters were too young. Because he could not keep up with the other lads in the village, he never learned with them. And when he left for Gondor, his grandmother immediately encouraged him to find his place as a healer. Anders was certain he would be the only man of Rohan who never learned to ride a horse. And then suddenly Fenris arrived, with his brooding temperament and restlessness, his elegant baring and delightfully sharp wit. And underneath all that sharp strength and beauty, there was an intelligent and thoughtful being eager for companionship. 

Fenris and Sirdal made another circle around the paddock, slightly faster this time, and Anders noted that, even with his arm in a sling, Fenris was an excellent rider. His balance was excellent, and he and Sirdal seemed to understand each other. They were a striking pair, slender, tall Fenris with his olive complexion and pale hair gleaming silver and bronze in the sunlight, Sirdal's dark brown coat was as rich as polished walnut. Fenris pushed Sirdal a little faster, urged him to pass by again, and Anders saw Fenris's lips quirk into a smile before he and Sirdal turned away to race down the track again. 

Fenris had a beautiful smile. 

Anders knew his leg would ache later. The walk down to the stables, even _with_ the aid of his walking stick, was stressful enough. Using his muscles in a way he was unused to would only cause more trouble. But, in the face of Fenris's smile and the sheer joy Anders felt at accomplishing what he thought was impossible was enough for him to bare the pain. 

Fenris finally dismounted and led Sirdal over to the bench. 

“Done for the day?” Anders asked, standing up and taking his staff in his hand. 

“Sirdal only needs a short run in the mornings. I will take him out of the city soon. Perhaps a scouting expedition.” Fenris replied. “Come. We will unsaddle Sirdal and clean him. Then we will eat.” 

“Sounds excellent.” Anders said, and he couldn't help but smile at Fenris's brisk, orderly speech. This was just how he was, Anders concluded. Harsh and honest and unable to mince words about a subject. Rather earthy for an elf- 

But Fenris was an elf, wasn't he? Anders wondered what Fenris thought of him, a ragged human with a bad leg and a combative manner. Anders knew he wasn't the easiest personality to swallow. By Arda, even on his best days his colleagues had trouble keeping up with his moods. But Fenris had lived for so long, and had seen so much! What did Fenris think of him? Anders fumbled with the reins Fenris handed him before recovering and holding his hand out to take the saddle and the blanket underneath it. An eager stable boy (one Anders recognized as a patient who came in with a sprained ankle in the fall) took everything from Anders and promised to “Polish the tack up right quick, sir!” Fenris only nodded and requested a bucket of water and a rag. 

“Anders, will you hold the bucket?” Fenris asked, and Anders stood by and held the bucket and watched as Fenris wiped Sirdal down and murmured to the horse in elvish. Though Anders knew little elvish beyond the names for medicinal plants, he understood talking to animals, and he knew the meaning of the words if not the words themselves. Good horse, good boy, you did a good job today. Anders reached into his cloak, much mended and loved, and searched through the pockets patched into the inside of the heavy fabric for a treat he saved from breakfast. 

“I have a few apples.” Anders offered once Fenris dumped the rag into the bucket. “I could give Sirdal one, if you're not opposed.” 

“No, that would be... it would be nice.” Fenris said quietly. “Sirdal would appreciate it, I am certain.” Anders tugged the apple out, and offered it to the horse. Sirdal's nostrils flared, before he leaned in and delicately chomped the treat out of Anders's hand. The horse's nose and lips were soft like velvet, and Anders didn't even mind the slobber on his hand. He let out a small laugh and patted Sirdal's nose. 

“Good boy.” He murmured, and laughed when Sirdal nudged his elbow, clearly searching for more apples. 

“He's greedy.” Fenris said apologetically. “And persistent. Apples are a favorite of his. Even over sugar.” As if to demonstrate, Fenris reached into a pouch on his belt and pulled out a sugar cube, which Sirdal refused in favor of stretching his neck out to try and reach Anders again. 

“No, Sirdal. One is more than enough for the day.” Anders joked. “Perhaps I'll see you again sometime?” 

“You are always welcome to.” Fenris offered. “You have good form. Come ride again sometime.” 

“I would... like that.” Anders replied as they left the stables. “I really would, Fe- I mean, Lord Fenris.” Anders fumbled over the words. Fenris wasn't one for titles or formality, but they were not close to each other. Perhaps he needed the title to create distance. Or perhaps Fenris liked having a title. Maybe Anders completely misread Fenris as a person and he was only being polite when he invited Anders to come and visit again, or he was really teaching him to ride a horse out of some demented sort of pity- 

“Fenris. I would prefer it if you call me Fenris.” Fenris said, his voice smooth and soft and so very _shy_. 

“Fenris.” Anders said carefully. “I'd like you to call me Anders, Fenris.” 

“Anders.” Fenris repeated the name again, changing the inflection. “Anders.” 

“Yes?” Anders asked cheekily, watching Fenris's beautiful hair sway in the breeze. 

“Come. We will have a meal before we part.” Fenris gestured towards the upper levels of the city. “Perhaps a pub somewhere? Or we could be guests at Sebastian's home.” 

“There's a good inn on the sixth level.” Anders suggested. It wasn't that Sebastian was unbearable, or irritating, but Anders did not want to spend a luncheon with Sebastian when he could spend it with Fenris and find out more about the enigmatic elf. 

“Then we will go there.” Fenris decided. “Lead the way.” 

It was a quiet walk. Anders appreciated Fenris's lack of chatter. Not everyone understood the value of silence, but Fenris did. Sometimes it was a bit unnerving, though, especially as they hurried up the steps. Without any conversation to distract him, Anders was left to his thoughts. Was his lack of speed and coordination annoying to Fenris? Would it eventually irritate Fenris so much that they could no longer stand each other? Would their fragile friendship be destroyed purely because Anders would always, _always_ hold him back? Anders pushed himself to keep up and not be a hindrance, but it always seemed like Fenris was right behind him at his elbow. Not impatient, exactly. It was more like Fenris wanted to see and experience more from life. This was why Fenris was different from the other elves Anders observed. Fenris was still attached to the world around him. He was thirsty for the world around him, and Anders felt that same thirst. He wanted just as much, just as badly, but he was bound here to Minas Tirith by his work and his leg. He did not have the opportunity to see the world the way Anders could. 

Anders wondered what bound Fenris in his place. Was it duty? Was it tradition? Or was it something less tangible, an urge that kept him away from the rest of the world until the pieces were in place and he was pushed to travel to Minas Tirith? 

“It's a street or two away from the Houses of Healing.” Anders finally said, the silence gnawing at his anxiety until he couldn't bear it anymore. “The inn, that is. I go there quite often, when I don't want to partake in the cooking at the Houses of Healing. Not everyone is good at it, you see.” Anders explained, color rising to his cheeks. He was rambling, wasn't he? How embarrassing! 

“How are tasks at the Houses of Healing assigned?” Fenris asked patiently. He looked curious, and there was a faint smile curling his lips upwards. 

“Oh, we go on rotation, but everyone tries to make sure I'm stuck with sweeping up or laundry duty. My cooking is.... horrendous.” Anders chuckled at the memories of slightly under-baked bread and burnt stews. “Perhaps not horrible, but certainly bad. I've not the talent or the patience for it.” 

“I am... adequate.” Fenris responded as they passed by the gates of the Houses of Healing. “Certainly not excellent, but I can bake trail bread and roast a rabbit. Or fish, if I must.” Fenris's nose wrinkled in disgust, and Anders couldn't help but laugh. After a moment, Fenris joined him, his low chuckle warm and welcoming. It was a beautiful sound. 

“Not fond of sea food?” Anders questioned. 

“I have never seen the sea.” Fenris said. “This is the closest I have ever been.” Neither of them said what they were both probably thinking. If whatever Lord Aragorn and Mithrandir had planned, if it failed... they may no longer be able to see the sea. The thoughts set a certain gloom over what was a lovely spring day. 

“When this war is over... perhaps you can see it.” Anders suggested hopefully. It felt forced on his tongue, that false optimism. 

“Perhaps.” Fenris replied. They returned to an awkward sort of silence as they walked along the road. 

“Ah, we're here.” Anders finally noticed when they nearly passed the inn, a cheery little place called The Blue Wyvern. Anders and Fenris entered the building, and Anders hobbled over to a table in the far corner of the main floor. A serving maid came by and served cider, and Anders ordered a bowl of mutton stew and roasted potatoes and, on a bit of a whim, requested a slice of an apple tart. Fenris ordered much the same, without the tart. 

“I thought elves drank fine wines and ate only the best of foods.” Anders remarked as Fenris drank his cider and ate a slice of hearty rye bread. 

“I confess to a fondness for wine, but I enjoy common fare over finery.” Fenris replied. “And yourself?” 

“Nothing in particular. I can't afford to be picky.” Anders said. “I like a decent ale and stew. Peasant food, you know?” 

“Another thing we have in common, Anders.” Fenris said with a smile. Fenris had a lovely smile. Did anyone else know that? Anders felt like he was one of the privileged few who knew that Fenris could smile and laugh and have fun. 

“I wonder what else we share.” Anders mused. “Shall we ask each other questions to pass the time?” 

“Perhaps. A question for a question sounds fair.” Fenris leaned towards him, his eyes glittering with amusement and curiosity. 

“You're my guest, so you may ask the first question.” Anders offered before taking a sip of his cider, the cool, sweet drink soothing his throat. 

“Hmmm.” Fenris hummed and inspected a loaf of bread before tearing a chunk off and spreading a bit of honey on the bread. “What was it like, entering this city for the first time?” 

“Overwhelming.” Anders confessed. “I didn't know where to look first.” There were so many people and so many things happening all at once in Minas Tirith. The city frightened him at first, and he hid in the Houses of Healing for months before one of the older healers, a man named Karl, convinced him to explore and enjoy what little he could of the outdoors here. 

“I had never seen so many wealthy people, or so many strange goods. It was too much for me to handle at the time.” Anders confessed before sipping his cider. “So my turn. What is your home like?” 

“For the sake of clarification, do you mean where I currently live or my place of birth?” Fenris asked with a bit of a smile. A charming smile. Anders debated for a moment. To learn about Fenris's origins would be like a history lesson brought to life. How fascinating would that be? But it would only speak to Fenris's history, and Anders wanted to know about Fenris's more recent past. 

“How about where you currently live? You can talk about your birthplace next.” Anders said flippantly. The serving girl came by with two bowls of stew and a shared platter of roasted potatoes. Anders dug into the meal with gusto as Fenris spoke. 

“I live in Rivendell, in the house of Lord Elrond Half-Elven. I translate ancient texts when I am not patrolling the region for orc activity.” Fenris said, and his voice wove a story of a green and growing place, somewhere ancient and beautiful and utterly exotic to Anders's ears. 

The conversation flowed over the meal. Anders shared his great love for cats, and Fenris admitted to an affection for dogs, though he liked cats well enough. They liked star-gazing and had a fondness for apples. Anders liked fish, Fenris detested them. Anders could not carry a tune in a bucket, and Fenris could sing (but adamantly refused to, much to Anders's disappointment). They shared stories of lighter days, when they were children, and Anders marveled at both three hundred years of memories and the antics of a young Fenris. They ended their meal by discussing their favorite places. 

“My favorite building in all of Rivendell is the library.” Fenris confessed later, once the meal was finished. “Perhaps it is strange to you. I am a warrior first, but I have always admired scholars for their work. In times of peace, I enjoy my work as a translator.” 

“I like being outside myself.” Anders replied. “There is this garden, a private place for the healers. We use it as an herbal garden, but there's this little wading fountain in the center, and I tend to dip my feet in during the summer months. It's... nice.” 

“It sounds pleasant. Perhaps, when the war is over...” Fenris mused. 

“I will show you this garden for your inspection. Then I will accompany you to Rivendell and experience this fine library first hand. If it isn't as magnificent as you claim I will be absolutely crushed.” Anders teased. Fenris laughed at that statement, and the two left the inn with full bellies and warm smiles. They made their stop in front of the gates to the Houses of Healing. 

“I will... see you tomorrow morning.” Anders said shyly. “When we make the morning rounds.” 

“Of course. We will have to speak with Guard Captain Aveline and Lady Isabella. Also Hawke.” Fenris added. “Merrill agreed to take a shift at the Houses to make up for our absence.” 

“Good for her.” Anders replied. “So, tomorrow then. I... I had a lovely time. Thank you for inviting me.” Anders had the perverse pleasure of witnessing Fenris not only duck his head, but flush a pretty pink color. Was he embarrassed? Fenris? An immortal elf, embarrassed by his own feelings? 

“The pleasure was mine, Anders. I would... that is, we should-” Fenris fumbled with his words, and Anders felt a strange swooping sensation in his stomach because this was for him, he made an immortal, fair, wise being stutter and fumble and blush. Him, Anders the crippled healer, had reduced an elf to shy blushes! He was about to lean forward and press a kiss to the side of Fenris's olive hued skin when a shout came from inside the Houses of Healing. 

“Go find Healer Anders, he can't be too far!” An elderly woman yelled from inside the Houses of Healing, and Anders tried to remember who was on the roster for healing duties today so he could scold the members who were supposed to give him his day off. 

“Hurry, hurry! It is an emergency!” The woman's voice echoed, and Anders and Fenris watched as a young apprentice stumbled out of the gates and frantically looked around her, blonde hair escaping from her braid. Her eyes locked onto Anders's, and Anders knew that whatever relaxed activity he planned after his time with Fenris was concluded would have to be put on hold. 

There was no time to rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading, leaving kudos, writing comments, and/or bookmarking this story!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders and Fenris spend time in the Houses of Healing.

The apprentice stumbled over the hem of her grey robe and nearly fell into Fenris's chest. Fenris's good arm shot out and stopped the girl from bowling them both over into the street.

“I- I am so sorry, milord, and- oh, Healer Anders!” The girl exclaimed loudly as she stepped away from Fenris, her red braids swinging like pendulums. “Healer Wynne insisted that I fetch you, there is some sort of problem with one of the patients and the healers are arguing and it is very terrible, please come and help, sir-”

“Yes, yes.” Anders interrupted. “Take me to them.” He glanced over at Fenris, a flush of embarrassment staining his cheeks. He wished he could spend more time with Fenris, especially when they were getting on so well. Anders wanted to know more about Fenris! He wanted to know all that Fenris had seen, all he experienced! All of that knowledge, all of those stories- Fenris knew so much, and Anders wanted to learn. Anders wanted to _enjoy_ his day off, not resolve disputes between healers! But duty called, and he must answer. It sounded serious, if the other healers could not band together to solve the problem, and Anders felt himself spiraling into anxiety. What went wrong? Had a patient fallen into a fever? A delusion? Had someone's infection spread? What could the problem be?

“You must have other tasks to occupy your time, Fenris. I'm sorry to cut our day short, but I must see to this.” Anders said with a note of apology in his voice as he began his retreat into the Houses of Healing. But Fenris matched him, step for step, following him into the cool stone halls.

“I will assist you. I may not be a healer, as you are, but I know some medicine.” Fenris insisted, and the warmth in his voice filled Anders with a strange sort of affection. Even though he had no obligation to help, Fenris was offering his expertise just in case Anders needed it. Fenris's solemn show of faith and kindness helped steady Anders. Whatever was wrong, they could face it together.

“Lead on, Apprentice.” Anders ordered, and they both followed the girl into the Houses. She turned down the first left hand tunnel and hurried towards a closed door with several healers huddled around it. Anders heard one of the healers, an older woman scolding another healer. It was difficult to tell who because of the crowd of grey robes blocking their view. Beyond the chattering of the crowd, Anders heard muffled cries and screams, screams that were all too familiar to him now. Another warrior was facing yet another nightmare, and here the healers were debating over what was to be done. He knew he should not have taken a day off! The healing halls always fell into chaos when he wasn't around!

“And really, young lady, you are acting far above your station as a healer! We will see what all the fuss is about!” The older woman insisted as Anders hurried towards the group. He stumbled in his haste, nearly fell, but Fenris's strong hand grabbed his elbow and steadied him. They continued to walk, Fenris supporting Anders at every step, and there wasn't even time to _thank_ Fenris for helping him before they joined the throng of grey robed healers.

“And I am telling you no. You may not go in.” It was Healer Evelyn who spoke, her black hair falling out of her head scarf and sticking to her damp, sandy gold skin. Her dark eyes were narrow, and she looked like she had swallowed a storm cloud she was barely holding back. Despite her diminutive stature, she seemed as fierce as a dragon guarding a hoard of jewels from thieves. Anders could have sworn that Evelyn was huffing little puffs of smoke out of her dainty nostrils as she stood, blocking all entry into the room the crowd stood in front of.

“The patient is suffering from severe injuries, and may be delirious.” Evelyn said firmly, her arms crossed in front of her chest. “He must not be overwhelmed. I will enter once Healer Wynne has found another healer suited for the task at hand.”

“And why should you be the one to tend to the patient?” Another healer questioned. “You haven't the experience, and are rather young for this task.”

“Too young. Come winter she'll be on her back and we'll have another mouth to feed.” Another healer muttered. Muffled laughter greeted that remark, and Anders resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Fenris turned towards him, questions clearly written in his eyes.

“Some of the healers think the younger girls have no business taking care of, ah, _virile_ male warriors.” Anders explained when he caught Fenris's puzzled expression. “They think the girls are too emotional. They could cause chaos in the wards, falling in love and breaking their hearts with every new patient. They want us to dismiss any unmarried young women from our volunteers. Some have even tried to dismiss fully ranked Healers like Evelyn.”

“I do not think the Houses can afford to turn any help offered away.” Fenris remarked under his breath, a comment for Anders's ears alone. Anders had to agree- and a patient was suffering because a group of nattering old women were too busy worrying over manners to tend to a man in the midst of his horrific nightmares. They were too busy arguing to do their work.

“The point is, maidens _should_ be off cleaning bandages and bedsheets, not tending to soldiers. Run along, girl.” Healer Ivriniel dismissed Evelyn with a hand wave, and Anders finally had enough. He coughed and hit the butt of his staff against the stone tile, and hid a smile behind his hand when some of the healers jumped at the sound.

“Ah, Healer Evelyn.” Anders greeted Evelyn, who gave him a cautiously polite hello. “Thank you for waiting for me, how is your patient?”

“Unwell, Healer Anders. As you hear.” Evelyn said, glaring at Healer Ivriniel. “We may enter as soon as I've gathered my equipment and the crowd has dispersed. I would not have them disturbing the patient.”

“Healer Anders.” Healer Ivriniel said sweetly, her voice laced with honey, as if it could mask what she had just said earlier. “Is it wise to have such a _young_ girl perform such a difficult task, she may faint. After all, she is-”

“Healer Evelyn has trained at the Houses of Healing for the past seven winters. She is as skilled as any of our healers.” Anders interrupted. Ivriniel meant well. She served in the Houses for much of her life, and she cared deeply for all her charges, and all the healers too. But she was old-fashioned, and was often more concerned with propriety than practicality. “And I doubt the patient will get up to much mischief with Healer Evelyn if he's doing even half as poorly as we hear.”

“Healer Anders!” Ivriniel gasped, her wrinkled face turning a particularly vibrant shade of eggplant purple.

“If you would return to your duties, Healer Evelyn and I will take care of the patient in question.” When the women refused to budge, Anders frowned, straightening himself up to his full height. “ _Now._ ”

After a moment far tenser than Anders approved of, the healers shuffled away. A few muttered their disapproval under their breaths. Several shot Evelyn judgemental looks. Evelyn ignored them, tilting her chin up, her dark eyes narrow and cold, every inch an ice queen. Anders reminded himself to ask her, or even Lotheriel, if it was another case of nobles versus nobles. Evelyn was the youngest child of an minor noble family, and some of the older noblewomen in the Houses pushed their rank around to gain influence in the court. It seemed a pointless, thankless task to Anders, but then again Anders was never interested in politics. His work was complex enough without the added burden of social obligations.

“Thank you, Healer Anders.” Evelyn said quietly once the crowd disappeared. “I sent the Captain's page boy to the armory, and then asked that Healer Wynne find you.”

“The... armory?” Fenris asked politely. Evelyn shrugged her slender shoulders.

“We may not need it.” Evelyn murmured. Even though she maintained a collected, cool appearance, Anders saw the flash of anxiety in her eyes as more muffled cries emanated from the room they stood in front of. He trusted Evelyn's instincts, but it pained him to hear a patient suffering when he could not ease it.

“Healer Evelyn, I brought the shields!” A gangly young man, all elbows and knees and pale as a ghost, hurried down the hall. His skinny arms clutched several round wooden shields. “Guard Captain Aveline was not happy. She will come later and complain, I am sorry.”

“Thank you, Cole. These will do nicely. I will handle the Guard Captain.” Healer Evelyn slipped her arm into the worn leather straps on one of the shields, adjusting them with a practiced ease. “Healer Anders, if you would take the other? Or perhaps Lord Fenris could take it? Stay behind the shields while Cole opens the door. Cole, do not come in until I tell you. Understand?”

“Yes, Healer Evelyn. I wait out here, and you will see to the Captain.” Cole nodded. “He will get better, won't he?”

“Of course he will.” Evelyn's easy motions stopped for a moment, and she reached out to pat Cole's shoulder in an uncharacteristic show of warmth and affection. “We will both see to that, Cole.”

“Thank you.” Cole said simply, and then the moment was gone. Healer Evelyn returned to the cool-headed, efficient woman Anders knew, raising her hand off the page's shoulder and returning to the task at hand.

“Are you prepared, Healer Anders?” Evelyn asked, her eyebrows furrowed into sharp angles.

“Of course.” Anders replied. He fumbled with the shield straps, but a warm hand lined with pale scars gripped his wrist to stop him. Fenris took the shield and strapped it to his uninjured arm before stepping in front of Anders, his green eyes focused and clear.

“I'll go in first.” Healer Evelyn stated confidently, but her steely expression wavered for a brief moment. “Healer Anders, if his condition is worse than I thought-”

“Fenris and I will take care of him. I give you my word.” Anders reassured her. The page boy, Cole, opened the door, and Evelyn quickly lifted her shield to cover as much of her tiny body as possible. Something (and Anders wasn't quite sure what because Fenris's lithe body was a surprisingly effective shield) whistled through the air and made a dull thud against Healer Evelyn's shield.

“Captain! Wake up!” Evelyn said, her clear voice ringing through the room. There was a gasping noise from inside, and then a horrified shout.

“H-Healer Evelyn!” The Commander exclaimed. “What are- what is all-”

“Inside, everyone.” Evelyn ordered. “He is awake now.”

Anders shuffled into the room, and Cole closed the door behind them. Evelyn lowered her shield, as did Fenris. Anders felt the blood drain from his face when he saw what made the noise inside the room. A thin dagger was buried deep in Evelyn's shield. Anders slowly approached the bedside, and was thankful that Fenris kept close. He had seen much in his time as a healer, but most of the patients laid up in the ward were in no position to fight. How long had Evelyn been dealing with this, that she had come up with ways to defend herself? Another question to ask later, he realized. How much had been hidden from him as he lost himself in his work?

Anders glanced over the tiny stone chamber, and was mildly impressed at how the healers attempted to make the drab room comfortable and welcoming. Fresh spring flowers decorated the side table in a showy display of pale pinks and buttery yellows. Colorful blankets of crimson and forest green covered the bed. The blankets were supposed to cover the bed, but they had been flung off at some point before they entered. It was probably while the patient was in the midst of his sleep terrors.

Captain Cullen attempted to sit up in his bed, but something (most likely the extensive injuries to his torso and his multiple broken ribs, Anders recalled) prevented him from fully sitting up. Healer Evelyn crossed the floor in several quick strides and flung the wooden shutters open. Bright afternoon sunlight flooded the room, and Cullen visibly relaxed, his brown eyes less haunted and frightened as he took in the sun.

“By Arda, what were they thinking, keeping the shutters closed? I _told_ them to keep them open!” Evelyn muttered as she passed Anders. She then spoke to Cullen, her voice and temper controlled. “Captain, did you take the sleeping draught given to you or not?”

“I... no.” Cullen confessed. He swept his tangled blond curls off his forehead, and his expression was one Anders was more accustomed to seeing on mischievous boys caught stealing pies, not full grown men laid up in infirmary beds.

“Hmmm.” Evelyn stared at him for a long moment, as if she could divulge more of the truth from her patient with a single look. She seemed to come to a conclusion and course of action, even without Cullen giving her more information.

“We will ween you off it. It is damaging your recovery.” Evelyn said firmly, every inch the Healer. She was as intimidating as any other senior healer. Perhaps it was a trait with all Healers. Even Anders was known to be an intimidating force in the healing wards.

“That easily?” Cullen asked, and he tried to smile. Those ghosts were still haunting him, and even though he tried to tease, Healer Evelyn was purely business.

“It aggravates your night terrors. You will tear the stitches in your arm and your chest. Then you will spend even more time resting in bed.” Evelyn said calmly. “And you aren't taking it in the first place. It's a waste of chamomile and lemon balm if you won't drink it.” She continued to move about with the efficiency of a well-oiled trebuchet, but Anders saw the tremor in her fingers, the way Evelyn bit the inside of her cheek as she righted overturned furniture and aired out the blankets.

“Wouldn't want that, would we, Healer Evelyn?” Cullen snarked back, but he seemed far more alive when he had someone to argue with.

“How long has this been going on?” Fenris asked, approaching the bedside. After a moment's hesitation, Cullen answered, lowering his voice as if he feared being overheard.

“It's been years now, Lord Fenris.” Cullen confessed. “Though they have worsened, of late.”

Anders moved a wooden stool next to the bed and sat down. He gave Cullen a critical look. Bandages still tight, stitches still in place. No tears in the skin. Evelyn's work was, as always, excellent. But the Captain's expression was still slightly closed off, still frightened. Still haunted. Those were wounds that could not be healed with stitches and ointments. No linen bandage could heal the soul.

“What measures have been taken to combat these nightmares?” Anders asked, and Cullen grimaced at the use of the term nightmare. Evelyn stood by a small chest on the floor, rearranging the flowers in the vase.

“The sleeping draughts worked for a week. Then the Captain refused to take them.” Evelyn said calmly, but Anders saw the way she pinched the dainty stem of a bright pink hyacinth, the way her dark eyes glared at the flower. Her patience was severely frayed, the endless routine of the healing wards finally disrupting her generally calm, collected nature.

“I do not wish to be helpless!” Cullen retorted angrily.

“And I will not have you risking your health!” Evelyn said with an impressive scowl.

“You think I do this for my own enjoyment? That I suffer this willingly?”

“What I _think_ hardly matters! You never listen to what I _think_! You will continue to be a reckless fool, Captain, and I will continue to stitch you up!” Evelyn violently jammed the flowers back into their cracked ceramic vase before standing up and giving the assembled party a perfectly executed curtsey. Anders couldn't help but feel that she was being terribly sarcastic. It was a trait he wouldn't have associated with Evelyn before this day. She had always been so calm from the moment she first entered the healing wards. Cool-headed, steady, patient Evelyn, a healer with such raw talent, such promise, was as mad as a wet cat!

“If you will excuse me, Healer Anders, Lord Fenris, I will hunt up some ointment for the Captain's wounds, no doubt he's strained the stitches. Again.” She breezed out of the room, her grey homespun robes whirling around her ankles. Anders whistled lowly as Healer Evelyn exited, her every step echoing through the hall. He never knew slippered feet could be so loud before.

“Is this a normal occurrence with your healers?” Fenris asked once the footsteps faded away.

“It has been tense in the Houses of Healing as of late.” Anders confessed. “I should have insisted she rest. But we are stretched thin, and Evelyn is a skilled healer.”

“When she doesn't lose her temper.” Cullen muttered, and Anders rolled his eyes. This was why he assigned Evelyn to this wing of the Houses of Healing. Even though he was generally polite and well spoken, the Captain was a notoriously poor patient. Evelyn was one of the few healers who wasn't cowed by his occasional outbursts and bad temper. But he hadn't realized how combative the two would turn out to be! Perhaps he had made a poor choice.

“I'll check on your stitches and the bruising on your ribs.” Anders said, ignoring the thunderous expression in Cullen's eyes. “Fenris, would you mind helping Healer Evelyn search for that ointment?” He gave Fenris a desperate sort of look. Evelyn needed someone to look out for her, before she fell apart, and Anders knew he couldn't go after her. He couldn't even begin to soothe the hurt feelings and frustrations that Evelyn must be feeling. Evelyn was straightforward, and Captain Cullen's ailment, his wounded mental state, was anything but straightforward. But perhaps a warrior like Fenris could. Fenris, who was wise and patient and terribly careful, would know exactly what to say to explain Cullen's mental injuries.

“If you do not believe you need me here, I will assist Healer Evelyn, Anders.” Fenris said. He stood up. “I will return shortly.”

He left then, moving so quietly that if Anders closed his eyes, he was certain he would have never heard Fenris leave. Anders sighed and looked down at his hands, weariness already heavy on his shoulders. It was lonely sitting on that stool, his walking stick resting against a wall. It was like every day in the Houses of Healing, where he sat with a sick or dying patient. Alone. Always alone.

But he was not alone anymore, was he? He thought of Fenris, of his simple words and quiet strength, how he patiently helped Anders learn to ride a horse. How he followed Anders without question to help him in the Houses of Healing. And there were other, Anders realized. Other healers, from the junior healers to the advanced healers like Evelyn, Lotheriel, or even Ivriniel, were always ready to support each other and their work. There were even people like Varric and Hawke, who listened in their own strange ways and always, always valued his input. Anders was not alone. He straightened his back and gave Cullen a calm, relaxed smile.

“Now, if you could detail exactly how long this has been going on, Captain, we may be able to develop a more effective strategy to help you recover your strength and get you out of this cot.” Anders couldn't mend all wounds, but he could at least help them heal.

-

Fenris took his time walking down the hall. He heard a door hinge squeal open before slamming shut, a sound that carried through the hall. Fenris followed the sound, and under the sounds of murmured voices and swift footsteps, he picked something else up. A muffled, faint sound, low muttering and an occassional muffled sob. He picked up his pace, his footsteps light on the stone until he reached the door and knocked lightly. There was a soft gasp, and a bit of a shuffling noise behind the door.

“Healer Evelyn?” Fenris asked quietly. “Is that you?”

“Lord Fenris?” Healer Evelyn replied. “I... wait for a moment, please.” The door swung inwards, and the young woman's dainty face and features peered up at him. Her eyes were red rimmed and slightly puffy, as if she had been crying fiercely for those few moments she had been alone.

“I'm sorry, my lord. I am not at my best.” Healer Evelyn murmured before rubbing her eyes with the back of her sleeve. The rough gray linen came back wet with tears.

“This has been difficult for you.” Fenris remarked.

“To be frank, Lord Fenris, this-” Evelyn waved her hand in a small arc that seemed to encompass the healing ward as well as the madness beyond its walls. “This has been difficult for all of us.” Her small shoulders shuddered as she took a deep breath. She wiped her eyes once more with her sleeve before straightening up and moving past Fenris. She carried a wicker basket with large bundle of fresh linens and a squat little green pot of glass filled with rosemary oil inside it. Fenris recognized Anders's messy scrawl on the bottle's label. He glanced in the storage closet before Evelyn shut the door behind them.

It was a tiny room lined with shelves, with various items piled from floor to ceiling. Fresh bed linens were neatly stacked along one wall, and another set of wall shelves were filled with different medicines, all carefully labeled. Anders's handwriting was on most of the labels. Overall, the room was tidy and well stocked. The healers worked hard to keep the healing ward running, even in a crisis. Not even Rivendell's healing house was as neatly organized.

“I didn't mean to get so overworked. I'm normally more controlled.” Evelyn said as they walked down the hall. Underneath her head scarf her thick dark braid swished from side to side, as if it was as irritated as its owner. “But he is so stubborn! If he would only listen!” She sighed and tucked a loose strand of her dark hair back underneath her headscarf before she took a sharp left turn down another hall.

“The Captain is a proud man.” Fenris said carefully. “It stings, to be reduced to sitting in a bed when he feels he can do more.” He knew that sting better than anyone, the feeling of uselessness, how inactivity dulled the senses and made one feel weak. Helpless. Worthless.

“Sod pride!” Evelyn hissed out, her footsteps as sharp as her voice as they walked. “His pride will destroy him! It destroys everything!” The way she said that, the vehemence in her voice, told Fenris everything he needed to know. Evelyn's outburst was rooted in something more troubling than a single belligerent patient.

“He suffers more than physical wounds.” Fenris said patiently. “His pride is what he has left.”

“You think I'm blind? A fool?” Evelyn asked angrily. “I see it every day! I know what it is to have nothing but pride! But no one can survive on pride alone!” She sniffed precisely once before taking a right turn and hurrying down another stone hall.

Her shoulders were shaking.

“You are no fool, Healer Evelyn.” Fenris said, easily matching her pace. He was grateful that he had long legs, as the small human woman moved extremely quickly. “But you are tired. You have helped where you could, there is no shame in resting.”

“But he won't let me _help_ him! His stupid, selfish pride won't allow it!” Evelyn burst out angrily, rounding on Fenris and glaring up at him with her dark, unhappy eyes.

Had Fenris been younger he may have taken offense. Pride was what helped him survive. His pride made him strong. But Fenris was older now, and he saw the tears in the young woman's eyes. She was angry, it was true, but she was tired and hurting. She felt helpless too. Her skill as a healer was proving useless. No matter how much effort she put into it, her patient seemed to be getting worse under her care. Fenris understood the frustration and pain helplessness caused, and this girl, practically a child compared to himself, was floundering in a wave of exhaustion and dark thoughts.

“From what Healer Anders has told me, you are a skilled healer. One of the best in the wards.” Fenris said gently. “But there are some wounds that a poultice can't soothe.”

“I know.” The tightness in her shoulders, the rigidness of her spine, melted away, and all that remained was a small young woman in a drab, misshapen gray linen robe. She looked old now, far older than she probably was. It was always difficult to tell human age, Fenris thought. Humans changed so quickly.

“I know that I can't fix it. Fix him.” Evelyn shook her head. “Those are the wrong words. He isn't... the Captain is not broken. I've seen broken before. But he's hurting, and the more he hurts the more he pushes away and tries to lick his wounds.” Evelyn resumed walking until they reached a small oak door. She stopped in front of it, her free hand curled around the iron door ring. After a moment's hesitation, Evelyn opened the door. A door that led outside, Fenris realized as he stepped out into the sunshine.

It was a garden. Not much of a garden, Fenris reluctantly acknowledged. It was a small courtyard with raised planter beds completely surrounded by high stone walls. There were planters along every wall, and planters lined up in strict rows inside the courtyard. The sun was bright on the grey stone, and someone had trained vines and even a small tree to grow against the wall in a fan shape. Each planter was filled with medicinal herbs, though there was one planter that seemed devoted to flowers. Fenris recognized several of the flowers from the vase inside Captain Cullen's room. It was a tiny space bursting with green and the smells of nature. Fenris had not anticipated such a peaceful space in the middle of the chaos of the Houses of Healing.

“I was just going to collect a few herbs to help the Captain relax.” Evelyn said softly. “Lavender. Perhaps mint. I'll try a few mixtures.” She set the basket resting on her hip down on a sun soaked stone bench and began to walk down the paths between the raised planters. Occasionally she bent over a planter, sorting through plants and cutting off flowers and stems with a little dagger she had at her side. Fenris followed at a distance.

“Perhaps athelas?” Fenris suggested as they walked. “It is known for its soothing scent and healing abilities.”

“I'm not the King.” Evelyn replied. “I doubt it will work if I were to use it.”

“It is not Lord Aragorn's bloodline but his knowledge that allowed him to use the plant.” Fenris said patiently. He had forgotten that humans gained and lost knowledge quickly over generations. “Pick some, and I will help you prepare it.”

“I... I will try it, then.” Evelyn reached over and cut off a chunk of the plant. The tiny star-like flowers glistened in the middle of the soft dark green leaves like small white jewels. The plant's fresh, soothing scent filled the air, and Fenris felt himself relaxing. He saw the young woman's shoulders release their tension, and a faint smile crossed her face and smoothed the worries away.

“Perhaps this will help.” She said softly, and there was a faint tinge of hope in her voice.

“You feel responsible towards him.” Fenris commented. “Captain Cullen, that is.”

“Yes.” Evelyn sighed, then sat down on the edge of a planter. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back to catch the sunlight, much like the plants around her. Fenris took a seat across from her and waited for her to speak. After a few moments, she did.

“I have six older brothers. Warriors, all of them, and very brave.” Evelyn said. “They are always getting into trouble.”

“You must be quite familiar with treating battle wounds, with so many siblings.” Fenris replied, but his mind remained focused on the misty veil over the young woman's eyes. She was not here in the garden, not really, but back with her family, back at her home. Back in the past, with six older brothers.

“Very, though I did not begin my formal training until... until there were Corsair attacks on the coast. Then Father and Maxwell saw fit to send Mother and I away.” Evelyn sighed. “I was fifteen.”

“That is very young.” An infant, in his lifetime. Fenris watched as the woman's fingers clutched at her robes.

“My father is dead. I have not heard news from half of my brothers in nearly a year.” Evelyn said softly. “Corwin is in Lamedon, defending the city with Benedict. Maxwell is marching to the Black Gates. And Mother and I-”

“You are here in the city.” Fenris said quietly. He felt a swell of sympathy for the young woman. She was isolated from most of her family. Three of her brothers were missing, and she lost her father as well. And Fenris knew she was not the only one suffering. Perhaps it was worse to be one of the ones left behind. Or perhaps it was a different sort of agony.

“This must be difficult for you.” Fenris added. But he could not help but be impressed by the resilience he had encountered since he began his work in the Houses of Healing. Despite the constant stress and pain, Evelyn had managed to push on, still working as a healer, still determined to see the day through. All of the healers pushed themselves to care for the injured. He thought of Evelyn and her frayed patience, of the princess and her sleepless nights in the hall, of Anders and his leg, and how he pushed himself beyond his limits to care for those who needed him. They were all so much stronger than anyone should be. But everyone broke eventually.

Fenris would have to speak with Anders. Evelyn could not be the only healer feeling the strain of the war.

“Yes. But I can bear it well enough, but Mother struggles.” Evelyn murmured. “She keeps to her rooms. My old nursemaid looks after her, and I try to visit every day.” She did not say more, and Fenris did not ask. Some subjects were best left untouched.

“I will take these to the Captain's room, Healer Evelyn. Perhaps you can rest for the day?” Fenris suggested. He hoisted the linen basket under his good arm and, after a moment's hesitation, Evelyn placed her bundle of herbs in the basket.

“I will rest. Tomorrow I will apologize to the Captain and find a way to help him heal.” Evelyn said softly. “I will be a healer.”

“You already are a healer.” Fenris corrected. “You only need a new approach. Now go.” Fenris nudged the girl back to the garden. “Flowers wilt if they do not find time to sit in the sun.”

He only left the garden once he saw Evelyn sitting at a planter, carefully examining the plants inside. She looked at peace with the sunshine gleaming on her glossy black hair, the headscarf wrapped around her head falling to the stone floor as she soaked in the sunshine.

When Fenris returned to the Captain's room it was to the sound of Anders scolding his patient on everything from his manners to his lack of intelligence. Fenris lingered in the doorway so he could listen to Anders come up with a multitude of insults and creative curses to pile onto Captain Cullen. The Captain, to his credit, did not take the verbal assault lying down, and returned the curses. It was only until they started shouting at each other in rapid Rohirric that Fenris finally lost himself. It had been several decades since he had truly practiced the language of the Horse Lords. Even he could admit he had lost some of his skill.

”They have been like this ever since you and Healer Evelyn went into the garden, my lord.” A strangely calm voice stated, and Fenris turned to find the knobby kneed squire from earlier staring at him. His pale eyes were wide and innocent. There was something strange about the boy, something detached that suggested he was not as tied to this world as others of the race of men. Fenris had the distinct feeling that this young man was less attached to Middle Earth than Fenris himself. His name was Cole, wasn't it?

”Truly? Since then?” Fenris asked. Cole nodded, his shaggy hair falling into his eyes.

”Healer Anders said Captain Cullen is a hardass clodpole without a shred of sympathy in his body, and then said that he is fundamentally lacking in compassion. Captain Cullen said Healer Anders is a tyrant who finds perverse pleasure in seeing him hounded to death by nagging old biddies.” The boy explained.

”Heavy accusations.” Fenris replied. The shouting had diminished into angry whispering in Rohirric, and Fenris caught Anders's angry exclamation.

“-that poor girl does not need to hear your shouting on top of everything else! Bema, do you have any _idea_ what she suffers to make sure you are cared for?” Anders hissed.

”If she left me to myself we would all be happier!” The Captain retorted. “Poor girl, indeed! She is quarrelsome and ill-tempered, and I did not ask to be waited on as I waste away in this thrice-damned bed!”

“Then Healer Anders said that Healer Evelyn was hardly a biddy, and Captain Cullen said she was by far the worst of the lot with her false cheer and how she couldn't leave well enough alone.” Cole said softly as the two men resumed shouting at each other. “And then they began to speak in Rohirric, and what I understood was not so nice.”

”Thank you, Cole. I had gathered as much.” Fenris replied. The young man anxiously looked towards the doorway, but did not dare to come closer. Fenris sighed and entered the room, making sure to make noise to alert the men to his presence. Anders snorted and hobbled away from the bedside. The captain glared out the window. The tension hung in the air like morning mist, and Fenris tried to dispel it.

“Healer Evelyn is in the herb garden.” Fenris informed the two men. “She asked me to bring some oil for the Captain’s stitches.” He set the bundle of athelas down next to the vase of flowers. He needed a bowl of fresh water to scatter the plant, but even the presence of the plant would still help ease the oppressive weight in the room.

“I’ll see to it.” Anders said, and he hobbled over to Fenris and took the oil from him. “Shirt off, Captain. I will see to your stitches.” His accent was thicker, the consonants sharper than usual. He and Captain Cullen must have shouted at each other in Rohirric for ages.

“Very well.” Cullen said, a mulish expression on his face. His accent was thicker as well, but Fenris detected a difference between it and Anders’s accent. Fenris took a seat on a stool next to the bed as Anders dabbed oil on the skin next to the stitches. Cullen remained silent and stoic.

“I told Evelyn to rest and recover.” Fenris told Anders. “I hope you will forgive me if I overstep my boundaries.” He was merely a guest in this city and the Houses of Healing. Yet Anders gave him a small, grateful smile, and Fenris felt his heart flutter near his throat.

“I will have Lothiriel come and make her rest. She listens to her, at least.” Anders said. “Evelyn can be stubborn but she’ll listen to reason.”

“She listens to no one but herself.” Cullen grumbled, and Anders let out a harsh breath through his nose. He stood up and hobbled over to where he dropped his staff. Fenris nearly went to his side to help him, but he held back. Anders could take care of himself. Fenris would not treat him as if he was weak, not when he was the strongest person he had met. He thought  
of the joy and fire in his eyes when Anders rode on Sirdon’s back, of his warmth and excitement when he spoke of his home in the city- Anders was strong. Anders stood straight and proud, staff in hand, and glared at Captain Cullen.

“Speak as poor of me as you please, Captain.” Anders announced in Rohirric. “But you will treat the other healers with respect. I expect more from a man with the blood of the Rohirrim in his veins. Your mother would be ashamed by your manners.”

“You know nothing of my family.” Cullen growled. “And you know nothing of me.”

“I know that no Rider of the Westmark or Knight of Gondor would drive a young woman to tears when she is only trying to fix his wounds.” Anders stated. “Fenris, I’ll be walking to my room. I am sorry you were dragged into this.” And then Anders was gone, shutting the door behind him. Cullen let out a sigh and stared out of the window, his brown eyes shuttered. Introspective. Upset.

“Is… is Healer Evelyn well?” He asked, voice soft and uncertain. He wondered at the change in behavior, until he recognized the sorrow in the man’s voice. Pride made him snap at the healers, but it was shame that brought him to Fenris and made him ask after them.

“She is tired.” Fenris said. “And frustrated. She blames herself for not helping you heal faster.” Fenris did not mention the missing family, the mother who was mostly gone, the loneliness Evelyn obviously felt. That was for her to divulge, not him. He stood up and moved to the window, fastening the shutters so they were wide open and let in the weak spring sun.

“I should find her and apologize.” Cullen said, his expression fixed in a determined frown. “I behaved poorly.”

“Give her time.” Fenris advised. “She will have to apologize to you as well.”

“I do not expect an apology.”

“She will give it. She was also unfair.” Fenris hesitantly placed a hand on Cullen’s shoulder. “Find what rest you can. I believe the Guard Captain will be on a warpath. Something about your squire stealing a few practice shields.”

“Cole.” Cullen shook his head. “Thank you.”

“Rest well.” Fenris nodded his head and exited the room, taking the steps two at a time to reach the courtyard where most of the resident healers lived. Anders was strong, it was true, but he could use a friend. What little Fenris heard of the argument between Healer and patient was harsh and hurtful on both sides. Anders needed a friend to talk to.

He found Anders sitting under the tree, heavy with unopened blossoms. He was glaring up at the branches and plucking a stray thread out of his blue tunic. It was still strange to see him out of the gray robes. Strange, but not unwelcome. Fenris approached and took a seat next to him on the ground.

“He is resting now.” Fenris said. “You were quite ferocious with him.”

“He was quite rude.” Anders snorted.

“You have a sharp tongue.” Fenris teased. “And no fear. Even I would hesitate to scold the Lion of Calembel.” Fenris heard the tales the men spread of their beloved Captain, who led the men of Calembel to Minas Tirith to defend the city, and how he held the line when the Witch King flew over the walls of the city to terrify and confuse the men posted there.

“Lionesses hunt. Lions are just grumpy.” Anders joked. “He’s hurt and angry. He just needs time.”

“He feels useless. It is something all warriors contend with, when we are injured and our brothers are sent to fight.” Fenris explained. “Being left behind, being a burden, it is not a comfortable feeling.”

“Healing can also be a burden.” Anders murmured. “It’s exhausting, watching so many sick and injured, waiting for them to either recover or die, having to be patient, oh so patient!”

“None of it is easy.” Fenris acknowledged. “I… Healer Evelyn said she had troubles at home.” It was not a topic Fenris wanted to pry into, but his curiosity had to be sated. He had to know.

“Her mother.” Anders sighed. “She was well enough when she first came to the city years ago, but after her husband died she grew strange. A madness took her.”

“Madness?” Was this the reason behind Evelyn’s devotion? He had never seen her outside the Houses of Healing. Was this why? Did she avoid her mother’s madness and try to lose herself in her work? Or was she searching for a cure?

“She was never the strongest of creatures, but the looming war and her husband’s death, and the disappearance of her children… Lady Trevelyan forgets things. Where she is, when she is. She often believes her daughter is her mother. On her clearer days she wonders why Evelyn spends so much time playing Healer and hermit when she should ready herself for parties and getting a husband.” Anders explained. “Evelyn tries not to speak of it, but rumors fly. Some of the noblewomen like to comment on her ‘sad situation,’ but she ignores them.”

“Does the Captain know?” Fenris asked.

“No. And Evelyn begged me not to breathe a word.” When Fenris gave him a curious look Anders merely shrugged. “She found me as I was walking here. She promised to apologize and told me to not let Cullen know about her family.”

“You were shouting in Rohirric. It was loud enough the entire hall could hear it.” Fenris commented. “I can see why she would be… concerned.”

“Cullen and I are kin of a sort. My father was of the Eastmark, his mother from the Westmark. We met here in the city, when I was training to be a healer and he was training as a knight.” Anders explained. “We were the only ones with Rohirric blood. We often spoke to each other.”

“You were friends.” Fenris said.

“Not quite.” Anders shook his head. “We did not get along, but we understand each other.”

“Which is why you scolded him.” Fenris said as he leaned back against the trunk of the tree. The sunshine was warm. If he shut his eyes he could almost imagine that there was no war, no looming destruction. There was just him, the tree, and Anders. Fenris opened his eyes and looked over to Anders.

“He needed reminding. He may be injured, he may be hurting, but it’s no excuse to treat the vulnerable poorly.” Anders said with a weak, shaky smile. “His mother would be furious with him, if she knew.”

“No more angry than he is with himself.” Fenris murmured. “Will you be well, Anders?” Anders was massaging around his knee and wincing, and Fenris wondered if he could do anything to help with the pain. There were ointments, practices to ease tired muscles- surely something would help.

“I will rest in my room. I… thank you for accompanying me, Fenris. I enjoyed spending time with you today.” Anders said. He ducked his head down, his golden hair covering his face, but Fenris still saw the happy smile and pink dusting of his cheeks. Anders was… happy. He was happy to spend time with him.

“I will be with Hawke and Aveline tomorrow, but I will be free for supper. Perhaps I could, well, if you are available.” Fenris wanted to say more, spend more time with his new friend. He never had such a friend before. Fenris rarely made friends, but Anders’s patience and strength and stubbornness broke through his barriers. Fenris wanted to speak with him.

“I would like that.” Anders said. “Could you help me up? I’m afraid I may have pushed my leg too far today.”

“Of course.” Fenris reached out and pulled Anders up, and handed him his staff. “Shall I accompany you?”

“No, but thank you for offering.” Anders smiled. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.” Fenris promised, and he watched Anders hobble away into the Hall and into his room. And as he watched he wondered at the foolishness of finding friendship when the world teetered on the brink of collapse. He wondered at the wisdom of growing ever closer to a mortal who would grow and die as he stayed as he was, youthful and graceful and never fading. Most of all, Fenris wondered if Anders struggled with the same fears he did. Yet despite the fears and worries Fenris could not find himself regretting his choice to spend time with and get to know Anders. Friendship of any kind was a welcome light in the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the hiatus, everyone! I'm pleased to say this story is back in business (slow updates, but back!). Thank you for sticking with it!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, leaving kudos, bookmarking, and/or commenting on this story!


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